25
A T the top of the bay , the bush gives way to a car park for the world’s dodgiest boat ramp.
As old as Batter’s Cove, it’s wedge of concrete peters off into the ocean through a tiny inlet of zig-zagging rocks.
The only people game enough to use it are weather-beaten, shriveled old men with wizened faces and little boats with engines that seem too big for the vessels they propel.
Every now and then a tourist tries their luck, reversing a trailer only marginally narrower than the ramp, their wheels butt-clenchingly close to the edge where a two metre fall awaits.
That’s when the community spirit of Batter’s Cove really comes to the fore with the clifftop filled with spectators, some with deck chairs and eskies, laughing, shouting words of encouragement and derision.
The air’s still today, the water has barely the slightest ripple all the way to the horizon.
The tide has receded, doubling the size of the beach, exposing the long flat expanse of rocks that usually lie submerged.
Everything has a white glare from the sun.
The air feels like I could stir it. Paul’s hand is on my shoulder, the rough of his thumb moving across my collarbone, and I’m about seventeen seconds away from purring.
I’ve just finished inhaling a mango on the deck when Paul’s car turns into our driveway.
He waves up at me, then goes straight under the house to talk to Dad.
Five minutes later there’s the slap of thongs on the stairs.
Paul grabs the railings on either side of his body and swings himself right up the next set of three stairs, taking him to the balcony where I’m sitting, surrounded by folders, notebooks and novels, and covered in mango juice.
Paul’s feet are a shock of white against the tan of his legs. A large vein stands on each, blue against his pale skin. Hair stands at attention on each toe.
‘Oh, thank God, you’re not perfect! Your feet are truly hideous,’ I say. ‘Can you put your boots back on?’
‘And hello to you too, Cat.’ He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Where’s your mum and brothers?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care.’
‘Coffee?’ He takes the seat opposite me.
‘That would be fantastic. No sugar for me, thanks.’
‘As if I didn’t know you’re sweet enough.’
‘Yeah, I can tell by that peck on the cheek.’
‘I’m a gentleman, remember?’
‘Yes, and now you’re sitting as far away from me as possible.’
‘Just enjoying the view,’ he grins and dances his toes across mine under the table.
‘How are you going to cope with no swell?’
‘We’re going off Sueys.’
‘That’s because you’re a bunch of bright sparks,’ I say. ‘Have fun smashing your tiny, unformed brains.’
Sueys is the nickname of a local point of interest, shortened, delightfully, from Suicide Rocks.
It is a deep channel in the rock face high above sea level, carved by high tides, pocketed with underwater caves.
Rock fishers love it, ignoring the safety sign that stands sentinel on the beach.
At least once each summer, sometimes twice, a fisher is swept off the rocks by an unexpected wave, sucked into an underwater cave where he remains until it’s safe enough for some poor search and rescue person to retrieve him, or what’s left of him.
It’s always a him, by the way. In all the years of annual bombardment by news helicopters it’s never a ‘she’ that’s been caught unawares.
‘You’re coming too,’ says Paul.
‘Thank you, but no thank you. I have work to do, as you can see. And Suey’s and I are not even remotely simpatico .’ I emphasise the last word with staccato syllables.
‘Quick coffee, and then let’s go?’
‘Coffee, yes, Sueys, no.’
Paul follows me into the kitchen. He leans against the bench, his hands on either side of his hips. I bend to open the cupboard beside his leg, gently nudging him out of my way with my hip.
‘Excuse me.’ I retrieve two cups. As I stand, his arms wrap around me and he pulls me against him, his legs stretched so we are the same height, chest to chest, face to face.
I put the cups down on the bench and slide my hands under his t-shirt, up his back, spreading my fingers across his shoulders.
‘Well, hello, Paul, what are you up to on this beautiful day?’ Mum’s voice cuts across the kitchen. Paul’s arms drop and I leap back in one super-human move.
‘I’m just making coffee,’ I say. ‘You want one?’
‘So that’s what you’re calling it, “coffee”,’ says Matty. ‘Right. Good to know.’
‘Hey, Matty, you want to come jump off Sueys with us?’
‘Yes!’ he says.
‘Can I go too, Paul?’ Tommy says.
‘No way are either of you jumping off Suicide Rocks,’ I say. ‘Tell them, Mum.’
‘No way in hell are either of you jumping off Suicide Rocks,’ Mum deadpans. ‘You’re both too small.’
‘Come on, Dad was doing it when he was five,’ says Matty.
‘What was I doing?’
‘Jumping off Sueys as a preschooler, apparently,’ says Mum.
Tommy starts clambering all over Dad, Mum opens the fridge, berating Matty for the teeth marks in the parmesan, which he strenuously, ear-piercingly denies.
‘Let’s go.’ I grab Paul’s hand, forgoing our coffees in favour of escaping my family.
We walk down the boat ramp, the sea a perfect shade of tourist postcard blue; it could be photoshopped.
As I squint into the horizon, a gazillion diamonds reflect off the surface of the water.
The tideline is a hundred metres away from where the boat ramp’s concrete abruptly ends.
The sand is hard underfoot, the heat baking it like concrete.
Our feet barely make an impression as we walk.
In the distance, fishing boats scatter across the deep water between Australia and Antarctica, today as smooth as a sheet of cardboard.
In front of us, the coast curves and the farms on top of the cliffs look as yellow as the sand.
In a few short months they will be as green, according to my Nonna, as the hills of Italy.
We cross the Bay, Nonna’s favourite beach.
It’s a small beach with a gentle slope where Tommy and I watch the sunset most nights, and calm, sheltered water, favoured by families dragging both their kids and their mountains of beach paraphernalia.
The Bay is also where the lifeys deliver their training programs for little kids.
As we pass, some lifeys are dragging huge paddleboards to the water’s edge, shooting dirty looks at anyone, man, woman or child who dares move to the water or across their path.
It’s a beautiful beach, despite the behemoths in their red and yellow uniforms. On the edge of the dune, I see Nonna’s spot.
It’s where she and my grandfather always sat, long before I was even born.
I never met him, but through Mum’s stories and a photo in Nonna’s bedroom, I can see it in my mind’s eye – my Nonno in his work pants, rolled up to below his knee, the top button of his long-sleeved shirt undone in a concession to the heat.
The two of them on matching yellow striped beach towels, sitting upright under a beach umbrella, also striped in yellow and white with fringing around the canopy.
Nonna kept that umbrella, although one of us carries it for her, and it now lives permanently in our garage.
I picture Nonna sitting there, watching us pass, and she would not be impressed – me a good catholic girl, wearing a lime green bikini with denim shorts, Paul wearing even less.
He’s holding his thongs, chest bare, t-shirt tucked into the top of his board shorts, flapping against his thigh as he walks.
The weight of his t-shirt on the super light fabric of his board shorts drags, pulling them down below his hipline.
The juxtaposition of his tanned torso and the white of his hip bones startles.
His abdominals descend in a deep v. It is actually offensive how good he looks, and I have to admit walking beside him feels pretty amazing in a shallow, superficial, vacuous way.
Every female gaze on the beach follows him.
We pass a group of young mothers watching their kids play in the shallows and they look me up and down, wondering no doubt, what kind of charity case the living god deigns to support with me by his side.
‘What?’ says Paul.
‘What, what?’
‘Your face.’
‘What about it?’
‘You just looked really angry for a second there.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Hmm, weird.’
He takes my hand and he’s leaning over me, kissing me in full view of the entire beach, mean mummies and all. Nonna would be apoplectic. The thought tugs the corners of my lips into a smile.
‘Better?’
We pick our way across the rocks. They’re covered by a furry sea mat of lichen that are dry to the touch but slimy and slippery below the surface.
They’re laced with mollusks, tiny cone-shaped shells that dig into the flesh of my feet.
Rock pools are everywhere. When we were kids, Matty and I would spend hours out here at low tide looking for blue ringed octopuses, excited yet terrified at the thought of finding one, picking over each individual rock pool, lying in the larger ones, warm as bathtubs from the sun.
We reach the end where the rocks form a small, flat platform and beyond lies, well, nothing, just the undertow that could drag me out to a platoon of sharks waiting to tear me apart.
Paul’s friends say hi to me and give him some sort of convoluted secret handshake.
If I weren’t scared shitless by being at the edge of the rocks, I’d roll my eyes.
Directly below us, where the rocks end, is the sheer drop to the water, still, tranquil and sun-glinted.
It could be a suburban swimming pool if it weren’t on the most dangerous stretch of coastline in the whole freakin’ country.
‘Coming through!’ One of the guys launches off the rock, dropping and landing with a large splash that doesn’t even reach the lip of where I’m standing.
‘You want to go first, Cat?’ Paul drops his t-shirt and thongs in a pile on a rock ledge.
‘You’ve banged your head against your surfboard far too much,’ I say. ‘If you think I am jumping to my death you are out of your freakin’ mind.’
He laughs and walks to the edge, turning to me.
He grins that perfect smile, then backflips into the air.
My breath catches as he disappears beyond view.
I peak over the edge and see him treading water.
He wipes the ocean from his face and behind him, it’s dark and still, barely a ripple from where he submerged.
Bubbles float around him, reflecting the sunlight.
‘Come on, Cat.’
‘No way.’
He dives deep, before scrambling up the rock face on all fours like a monkey, using his feet and his hands to grip and pull himself up and over the edge. He wraps his arms around me, and his hands are freezing against my back. I rear back.
‘You’re so cold!’ I put my hands flat on his chest, pushing away. It’s like trying to push the cliffs; he doesn’t yield.
‘Yeah well, you’re so hot.’ He kisses my neck before releasing me.
‘Get a room,’ Ant yells, then runs hard across the rocks.
He pushes off the cliff edge on one foot and somersaults through the air.
The thwack of skin hitting water is matched by our audible winces.
Ant climbs out, and a red smear reaches from hip to shoulder blade across his back.
One of the guys, Tom, slaps it, and the handprint stays white before fading to mottled red.
‘Ya dick!’ They wrestle to the edge of the rocks, Ant bracing his whole body before flinging Tom over. Ant wobbles, corrects his balance, overcorrects and then dives into the water. As he surfaces for breath, Tom pounces on him, pulling him back below.
Beside me, Paul’s lips are salt crusted.
‘And you wonder why I call them Neanderthals,’ I mutter as the two boys wrestle each other back to the cliff face.
‘That’s not very nice. They think you’re the best.’ He wanders across the rocks to chat to Cavey.
‘Come on, Cat,’ Ant says, wiping his face of salty water. I’ve found a perfect spot, a rock ledge that could double as an armchair, and I’m nestled into it, the sun at my back, the rocks still cool from the night. He pulls me to my feet, ignoring my protests. ‘Let’s go.’
I’m dragged to the edge. My throat tightens and I’m covered in a layer of sweat.
‘You’re gonna love it.’ Ant nudges me forward. Droplets from his wet hair land on my bare skin like needles.
‘Don’t push me.’ I look down into the water.
‘Of course not,’ he says.
‘What if I land on the rocks?’ Tears cloud my vision and the ribbon of the road far above the beach wavers.
‘You won’t,’ he says. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘I got it, Scampo.’ Paul takes my hand and I grip it with both of mine.
‘Sorry, mate, I didn’t mean anything,’ says Ant.
‘Don’t let go of my hand.’ Paul’s eyes never leave mine. ‘We’ve got this.’
‘You sure?’
‘On three.’ We’re standing side by side and far across the Bay there’s a car at the lookout. The sun glints off it, a giant blinding light. ‘One, two...’
‘No!’ I shout, but I’m laughing, and as I hear three, I’m in the air and it seems like a lifetime that I hover in space before the water is all around me and my mouth is open and I’m happy. Light reflects off a million bubbles. As I gasp for air in the sunlight, Paul is still holding my hand.
I let go, kicking towards the wall and hear Ant cheering my name from above.
Paul grabs my foot and pulls me under, and then pushes past me to reach the wall.
He clings to the side and gestures for me to go first. I make sure my bikini is where it should be and start climbing.
I hate the thought that he’s looking directly up at the place where the sun doesn’t shine, but I’m more conscious of the boys at the top with a perfect view straight down.
Paul must have the same thought: he scrambles up the rock face past me.
When I reach the top, he holds out his hand.
He grabs me and for a moment I’m hovering mid-air again as he pulls me to stand on the rocks.
My legs manage to keep me upright despite my trembling.
‘That was amazing.’ I wrap my towel around my waist and grab my sunglasses.
‘Let’s go again.’
‘Never again as long as I live.’ He laughs and flips off the platform.
The thrum of my heartbeat roaring through my ears fades. I stand facing the sun, my eyes closed behind my sunglasses, feeling my breath return to normal. They snap open when I hear a high-pitched giggle.