35
‘E WW, Cat, look at this !’ Tommy’s flipped a giant piece of seaweed and even from my viewpoint at the base of the dunes I can see the flicker of movement as thousands of sand fleas jump, leap and tumble, their hideous little opaque bodies reflecting the sea and the sand.
‘What is it?’ I yell.
‘Come look!’
I get to my feet and pick up the bag of rubbish we’ve collected.
Tommy’s found the partially decomposed remains of a fish in a jumble of fishing line.
An eyeless cavity is filled with dirty sand.
The smell is enough to turn my stomach. ‘Man, fishers are pigs,’ I say.
‘They just leave their crap everywhere.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘We can’t leave the fishing line,’ I say.
‘What if a dolphin or a whale or something gets caught up in it? We’ll just have to grab the whole lot.
Give me your rubbish bag.’ I turn his bag inside out, gripping the base of it, my hand encased in plastic.
I try not to gag as I reach out, my mouth clamped shut, my eyes watering, and grasp the fish.
Something gives under my fingers, and I scream and drop it, disturbing the sand fleas who resume their disco.
‘Ew, ew, ew!’ I yell, jumping from one foot to the other.
I take a deep breath, lift the fish and quickly pull my hand back through the bag, trapping it in a parcel of grossness.
I knot the bag and drop it into mine, knotting that too.
I toss it up on the beach. ‘We’ll grab it on the way home,’ I say, then use the sand to scrub my hands like I’ve never scrubbed them before.
‘Hey look – here comes Dad,’ says Tommy.
Dad’s walking up the beach, his fishing rod resting on his shoulder, tackle box swinging in one hand, a bucket in the other.
‘Good. He can take the bag of rubbish,’ I say. ‘Go grab it, Tommy.’
‘Eww, no, you do it.’
‘I picked up a dead fish. Don’t even think about it.’
He runs up the beach, scoops up the bag, holding it with his arm fully extended, his head turned away.
‘What makes you think I want it?’ says Dad as he approaches.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ I say. ‘You fish; this line could have been yours, tangling and trapping some poor creature minding its own business out in the ocean.’
‘It’s not my line,’ says Dad, but he lets Tommy drop the rubbish into his fish bucket. We all pull a face at the resurrected smell.
Our shadows are long ahead of us, the late afternoon sun reflects off the water and the sand is hot underfoot.
We reach Dad’s spot, and he and Tommy climb the outcrop that extends out into the ocean.
A wave curls, and I recognise the flash of blue that is Paul’s surfboard.
Tommy calls out, and Paul waves. Bobbing out the back amongst the pack is Matty.
‘Did you know your son was out here?’ I say. ‘When did this happen?’
‘We finished up early.’ Dad kneels on the rock to thread his line through a hook. ‘And before you have a go at Matty, Paul offered. I didn’t know they were surfing here, though. That’s just good luck, my Dirty Three all together!’
I walk across the rocks to where a natural gorge has formed, a channel of ocean water crashing through the rocks.
I carefully lower myself down and sit with my back against the rocks, my feet in the ocean.
There’s a perfectly heart-shaped hole in the rock formation above me, framing the sky’s incredible shade of blue, deeper than what could ever seem possible.
The surfers crest their waves, and as Paul stands, he fills the heart. How freakin’ symbolic.
I’m surrounded by rock pools, and I turn onto my stomach to peer down into one, my chin resting on my forearms, the rock beneath me as warm as an electric blanket.
A world lies beneath me, a city of shells.
There’s the faintest ripple as my fingers twist and turn, choosing then discarding them.
Buried beneath the shells is a perfect piece of sea glass.
Boom! I jump up to show Tommy and as I step across a rock pool a boulder teeters under my foot, throwing me sideways and down the rock face across the mollusks.
Three deep grooves in my thigh fill with blood; it runs down my calf onto the rocks and into the water.
The heel of my hand is a swamp of blood too.
My hip thumps as I push my hair back out of my face.
I turn onto all fours, my sea glass gone, then slowly get up and limp to Dad.
‘What the hell?’ Dad visibly pales and Tommy bursts into tears.
‘I slipped on the freakin’ rocks.’
‘Can you see? Are you dizzy? Here, sit down.’ Dad guides me onto the rocks.
‘Look at my leg.’
‘That’s just a scratch,’ Dad says, ‘it’s nasty, but once you rinse it out, you’ll be fine. I’m more worried about your head.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with my head?’
‘Paul, Paul, come quick!’ Tommy shouts, ‘Cat’s hurt!’
‘Are you kidding?’ I hiss. ‘Stop yelling!’
Paul’s suddenly standing over me, dripping with sea water, his shadow blocking out the sun.
‘Babe, you okay?’ Paul’s fingers are against my hairline, probing and parting my hair.
‘Cat, how many fingers am I holding up?’ Dad’s waving his hand in my face.
‘Paul! Dad, stop it!’ I push their hands away. ‘I’m fine, I slipped. No big deal.’
‘Your face is covered in blood.’ Paul resumes his search over my head. ‘It’s coming from somewhere.’
‘Stop!’ I rear back. ‘I didn’t hit my head, just my leg. And my hand is hurting like a mofo.’ I turn it towards the sun, and warm blood runs down my wrist.
‘Okay, you’re swearing, so you must be fine,’ says Dad. ‘Go clean yourself up; get the shells out of your skin. Tommy, Paul, give her a hand, will you?’
‘I’m not a baby; I don’t need rescuing.’ I stand and as I put my weight through my hip the pain hits me.
I buckle, and Paul puts his arm around my waist, holding me steady.
I’m wincing, grimacing and covered with cold sweat.
I swear I can feel the hair at the back of my neck curling, prickling my scalp.
‘Just relax,’ Paul says and lifts me into his arms. I balk at the red I have painted across his chest.
‘Don’t you drop her,’ Dad calls out.
‘Never,’ Paul returns over his shoulder, ‘I’m treating her like she’s toxic waste.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ I say, ‘but it’s pretty much true. Your wetsuit’s covered in my blood.’
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ he says, then frowns. ‘Yeah, okay, that’s weird, you don’t have to tell me.’
‘And more than borderline creepy.’
‘Can you stand now?’
I stand in the shallows and scoop the water over my leg. I grit my teeth, the salt stinging, the shell fragments sharp under my hand.
‘Let’s go in a bit more,’ says Paul.
‘Why don’t you just give the sharks a written invitation?’
‘It will take a bit more blood than this, but you did a good job. Look at your face.’
I take off my glasses to look at my reflection. No wonder Dad flipped out. There’s a massive smear of blood across half of my forehead. I lean down and scrub my face in the shallows.
‘Can I have a look?’ He stands before me, tilting my head in his hands.
‘No, I’ve got it.’ I pull back out of reach. ‘I told you; I didn’t hit my head. It doesn’t hurt.’
‘Will you just let me see for myself? It’s not that deep, Cat.’
‘Exactly, I’m fine. I told you. I don’t need rescuing.’
‘Says the girl who I just carried across the rocks.’
I have no answer to that, so I continue splashing myself with sea water.
‘Come on, let me kiss it better,’ says Paul.
‘My head’s fine. It’s my left hip that hurts, but you better not kiss that in front of Dad. He might feed you to the sharks.’ Already my skin is starting to swell with blues and purples.
‘I’m kinda thinking it would be worth it, but point taken,’ he says. ‘Let’s just stick with this invisible head injury. There’s a scar in your hairline, did you know that?’
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘When I was three, I tripped over Matty and split my head open on the coffee table. Now that bled. We had to throw out the rug. Yet another time Matty’s caused me grief over the years. Speak of the devil...’
‘Look at him go,’ says Paul, ‘he’s loving it out there.’
‘I hate him being out there,’ I say.
‘The boys are taking care of him, he’s all good. But if it’s really stressing you out, I’ll go back out, give him another couple of waves then bring him in?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Am I sure that I want my girlfriend watching me be a hero out on the waves? That’s a yes!’ He kisses me and skims across the surface of the water, the sun bouncing off the white foam.