Groovy Day

I'm sitting here in my little shop on King Street and everyone who walks by looks kind of groovy. They've all got their groovy shoes on, there's a groovy little bounce in their walk, a groovy smile on their groovy lips as they talk to their groovy friends about groovy little things.

The goths, the emos, the grungies and the hippies and the skater dudes, groovy one and all. Even the bland ones today, somehow they've got a little bland groove going on.

It's like the radio man said, "Hey groovy people, wake up and get out of bed, and be as grrrroovy as you can because it's International Groovy Day."

And every one jumped out of bed and said hey yeah, let's get groovy today.

Makes me wish I hadn't slept in.

Under A Blood Red Moon

Just over one year ago The Dreaded One and I had traveled to Turkey to see a full solar eclipse in a national park just outside Antalya. Tonight there was a full lunar eclipse in Australia that turned the moon red. Not sure if the red business happens during all lunar eclipses, but it was pretty special.

I thought I was going to miss the whole show because I was working, but I managed to slip out through one of the Opera House back doors and it was a great sight. I grabbed a couple of the Bangladeshi kitchen hands and an apprentice on the way so they could see the eclipse too. Loads of people were out there all looking up. The Bangladeshis chatted quietly in their language, English being a constant struggle, and after about 5 minutes one said to me, "Chef... what is happening?"

I explained what an eclipse was all about, pointed at the moon and then where the sun was (it obviously looked like I was pointing at the ground), I winged it about the redness and said it was some weird kind of light refraction phenomenon.

The kitchen hand looked at me blankly the whole time and half nodded when I stopped making words at him. We went back inside.

"That explanation," the apprentice said to me, "went so far over his head."

Guy probably thinks I'm totally mad.

Pretty moon though.

Tanja Liedtke

I've written quite recently about that feeling of living on borrowed time. Fuck me if stories like this don't make me feel even more like that. This was really sad.

There's lots of newspaper stuff about it, but I like how Chris handles the story. Google for more info.

Typical Day At The Office

Today everything about my shop was giving me the shits. I just didn't want to be there.

Still, it's quiet and I have to write a story about Earthdance. I do a lot of background reading and get started, and suddenly my story about Earthdance has talking whales in it. This amuses me a lot. I start to wonder if the new editor will let me get away with as much as the old editor did.

A good friend who won't let me call her by her name logs on and we have an extensive discussion about minions and how cool it would be to have them. I decide that minions will be the topic of my next Grumpy column.

But then I start to wonder if maybe something to do with my involvement with APEC might have better comic potential than minions. Did I mention my involvement with APEC? I'm going to be working as one of the chefs at the Sydney Opera House where the Asia Pacific Economic Community conference is being held - a building that may as well have a big bullseye on the side. Fucking hell, they really chose a hard to pick target, didn't they.

Anyway, if my background is cleared by ASIO and the CIA and whoever else is doing the security checks, I'll be part of the team feeding the likes of George Bush and his Australian girlfriend John Howard. Regular readers will find this amusing because you know how qualified I am. And if you're an ASIO or CIA first time reader, I hope you find the Australian girlfriend line as amusing as it's meant to be.

The Earthdance story is going well, but I am interrupted by a promoter/DJ friend who comes into the shop to pick up ticket sales. In the course of the conversation he wonders if it was a bad thing to have a joint before having his massage. His face is all mooshy from putting it in that doughnut pillow thing but he is as hyperactive as always, and a bit grumpy that he is not doing the closing set on the psytrance stage at Earthdance like he usually does.

He leaves. I go back to the talking whales. I have a feeling I won't be able to make it to the theatre so I email the relevant person to change my tickets to Saturday night.

Lucky because a guy comes into the shop around about the time I decide to close up and leave. He stays. And Stays. And stays. By this time I really am not happy. It's been an okay day sales-wise, but I just want to not be there.

Then the guy starts to buy stuff. And more stuff. And, like, a ridiculous amount of stuff. We start talking. He is going to Burning Man. I mention Soulclipse, the eclipse festival I went to in Turkey last year. He was there. We chat. We get along okay. I ask what he does for work because he has an American accent. He tells me he is with the CIA.

That last bit was a joke. The Customer From Heaven is with a company called something like Giggle? Gaggle? Google! It's Google, and he is setting up a Sydney office. I think Google people must have nice pay packets.

So anyway, long and short of it, what with minions and talking whales and stoned promoters and Men From Google, I had a total mood swing. I loved the shop again.

Eyes Wide Shut

Saturday night at the party was your perfect party night (for an indoor party). So many good people, so much good music.

However the highlight for me was missed by me. I didn't see it happen, just caught the tail end as my eyes were opened, and it has made me laugh.

I frequently lose myself in the music. Sometimes I like checking others out, other times I close my eyes and totally get lost in the music.

At one point this very cute girl decides to dance with me. She stomps and raunches and wiggles and smiles and is very hot and eventually wonders... why is this guy dancing with his eyes closed when I am doing all of this?

I open my eyes just as this very cute girl turns and stomps and wiggles and smiles her way to another part of the room.

The Dreaded One later tells me she thought about tapping me on the shoulder and telling me what was happening but it was just too damned funny.

Tee. Fucking. Hee.

Shopping

Although the shop has been a drag lately, it just rocks today. Today is the reason we stuck with it through tough times. It can be such a silly amount of fun. It's obviously good when it's been busy and there have been sales, but it's the other stuff that really makes it so cool. This week I chatted to a couple of Goths visiting from interstate who loved the shop, an emo girl with green hair who said she hoped the shop was not going to close, and a visitor from the suburbs of the Central Coast who was amazed that such a shop existed and walked around for ages like she thought she was on another planet.

Recently I had this conversation with a customer:

Him: So that's two expensive items I'm going to buy - will you give me a discount?

Me: No.

Him: Come on. Just knock ten bucks off.

Me: Why would I do that? You're going to buy them anyway.

Him: Yeah, but I just want a discount.

Me: You're an arsehole. I can sell them to someone else without giving a discount but in any case you're fully going to buy them regardless.

Him: Yeah but you're going to give me a discount anyway because you're a good guy.

We were laughing through all this and I gave him his discount and he left the store a happy customer, surprise gift for his girlfriend tucked under his arm. It was a funny little encounter that left me smiling - such a small discount that it obviously wasn't about the money. And I'll bet he'll be back.

Also, I've had Vancouverians in all week. They googled Sydney psytrance and discovered the shop and man do they love it. They've been back three times during the week, bought loads of clothes, shown me pictures from back home, brought friends to the shop, told me they're coming back with a CD they meant to bring to give to me... and while they're in the shop other customers I don't know tell me how sad they are that we're trying to sell the shop because they love it so much, a friend calls in and I tell him about Jocey falling over in the park and we stand there in the middle of the shop having a really good laugh, then plan to catch up for a beer at the party tonight.

I look around and realise that the Canadians are going to be at the party and they're going to have a blast and make loads of friends, and I know already that I am probably going to become a friend and that they are going to totally adore The Dreaded One... and this is a day at work.

The shop is empty now and I'm typing this while Sirius Issness is belting through the speakers, and I am really sad that we couldn't make the shop work. But I'm also pretty chilled about it because of the good parts.

Like, what other environment are you going to have someone walk up to you and say, "Hey Lee, this is my friend Ben. He's Megatron."

Days like this, I know that I am really, really going to miss the shop.

Imagine Toi Review

Just a quickie - saw former Cirque du Soleil clown Julien Cottereau last night. What a magical performance it was. His style is a bit like the Umbilical Brothers (who were in the audience), a mime act with vocal sound effects, only where the Australian duo are full-blown slapstick comedians his act is one of charm and wonder. Hilarious stuff that makes you use your imagination to realise what he is doing with his imagination. I had been concerned about the number of kids in the audience but I soon realised that there are few sounds more pure and joyous and totally infectious than that of a child in raptures of laughter (yes I did say that AND meant it). This was a funny and warm experience and I left the theatre feeling more happy than I have in a long time.

I haven't managed to get review space for this one so I think I am going to start a separate theatre review blog after all.

Meantime, if you live in Sydney the show is on in The Playhouse, Sydney Opera House until September 1. Go see it.

PS, Update, longer review here.

Happy August 9

Your senses heighten. This is extreme. The best. Emotion becomes almost more than you can bear. Best feeling ever. Total bodymindfuckwow.

Then black. Really black. Just nothing.

More time than you are aware of.

Then white. Really white. Just white and alien voices. Tubes. Machinery. Numb kind of pain. Vague understanding that the aliens are angels.

Or nurses.

Did I mention the confusion? The lack of memory? The total absence of self? Who you are, it's just not there.

Some memory.

Gaps.

And then maybe it tumbles in and it turns out you are a lucky one. You've survived because someone loves you and because strangers have done their job.

That and a whole lot more was August 9 a handful of years ago. Is it five? I think it's five.

Have been living on borrowed time ever since.

PS - six years from now the full Men's Health article will be published on Your Friends House.

Treading Water At Turtle Bay

Tired. Lazy. Here is a short story of mine that appeared in a very nice book (Southerly) about seven (?!) years ago.

These stories may as well go up here as be sentenced to the silence of pages in now unread magazines and books.

I hope you enjoy.



TREADING WATER AT TURTLE BAY

"I think we should go to Turtle Bay."
This stops me mid-sentence. I close my eyes and feel my jaw muscles dance. Louise cannot see that my eyes are closed, not through the book, not through the sunglasses. I have not heard of Turtle Bay, but I do know I don't want to go there. Not when I am so content here. For several moments I fantasize that Louise has not spoken at all. I feel some sweat trickle down my back. I want to reach for my drink but don't dare move for fear of spoiling my fantasy.
"Pat? Did you hear me? I said I want to go to Turtle Bay."
I dog-ear the page and put the book on the ground beside the deck chair. I lean forward for my drink. The brown neck above the foam cooler is warm against my lips, the beer inside is cold.
"Where is it?” I ask, “and why do you want to go there?"
Louise tells me that it's near a place I've heard of but know nothing about. I think I’ve seen the name on sugar packets or bottles of cheap rum. She tells me that turtles go there to lay eggs on the beach. She tells me it would be really interesting.
I nod slowly, but not in agreement. I watch one of the other hotel guests pull herself from the pool and walk across to her deck chair where she settles without bothering to towel her glistening skin; second fantasy of the day.
"Pat? What do you think?"
"I don't know. I'm just as happy to stay here. What is it - two, three hours' drive?"
"About that."
"North?"
Louise nods.
"It'll be hot."
"It's hot here."
"Yes but ... we're here already."
"The turtles aren't."
I couldn't be less interested in the turtles, but I can't say no. That would be selfish. She must be made to realize for herself that it's a bad idea.
"We might go all that way,” I caution, “and there might not be any turtles.”
"This is their season." Louise holds up the brochure she's been reading.
"Anyway, we won't get any accommodation. You need to plan ahead for these things."
"If I get accommodation can we go?"
"If it's a tourist attraction we won't get any accommodation."
"But if I do ...?"
"It’ll be booked out. It gets really crowded during turtle season.”
Louise smiles as she stands up. "I'll make some calls and see if I can get us in somewhere."
I give her a suit-yourself shrug and a don’t-get-your-hopes-up smile as I aim my face to the sun.

Should have just said no, I tell myself, scowling darkly. And somewhat pointlessly, I acknowledge. But it makes me feel better, so I continue to scowl and berate myself for not having the balls to say no.
We've been on the road for three and a half hours and there's still another sixty two kilometres to go and the air conditioning's broken and Louise The Turtle Queen is sleeping like a baby. I consider jumping on the brake for no other reason than waking Louise, but that would be childish, so I just entertain myself by thinking about it. I also think about turning around and trying to make it back to the hotel before she wakes, but that would be foolish. Almost there now, I think gloomily. Soon my scowl starts to soften. Almost there. And it's only for a couple of days anyway. I shrug. At least we haven't broken down. At least we haven't had an accident. I sigh into the heat and think about turtle eggs on toast.

"You're lucky," the manager tells us in a thin, dry voice as he takes the key from the peg board. "This was a last minute cancellation, otherwise we're all booked up."
"That was lucky," I say. "Lucky us."
The man is old - seventy years or more - and thin and leathery. His face is angular with large, dark eyes like wet gemstones. He tells us to follow him in the car, he'll take his push bike.
"Do you suppose," I ask Louise when we are back in the stifling atmosphere of the car, "that everyone in Turtle Bay looks like a turtle?"
Louise giggles and slaps me casually on the shoulder.
We follow the manager as he leads us leisurely along a winding path through the caravan park. He rings the bike's bell from time to time and waves one large hand loosely at his guests. Kids are everywhere, playing games, bombing each other in the pool. I realize that although I have not set foot in a caravan park since I was their age, it is all so familiar it could have been here, just last week.
The manager waves us to our caravan and keeps riding. I pull into the car space and switch off the engine. We sit and look at our caravan, a relic, I suspect, from everyone's childhood. Already I know that the interior is fake wood grain, chipped chrome and green vinyl. Somewhere in the distance is the ping of a tent peg being driven into the ground.
"Not exactly five stars," I comment.
"It's all I could get. Besides, what do you expect for $12 a night?"
The humidity at this place is something I've never experienced before. I feel short of breath as we walk to the front door. I can imagine going mad in such heat. There are a few more caravans near ours and some aluminum cabins with air conditioners humming. There is a path leading down to a low, scrub-like forest beyond which is the beach. A father and son are walking along the path armed with fishing tackle.
Louise unlocks the door and we step into our $12 a night accommodation. I actually gasp.
"Unbelievable," I say. "Someone's left the air conditioner on hot."
After a brief inspection I am dismayed to find that this is not the case; there is no air conditioner. Our caravan is simply hot. Suffocatingly hot. Hot in red, shimmering letters. We open all the windows, winding the little crank handles furiously, and quickly escape to the comparatively cool heat outside. There is no breeze, no relief at all.
"You could go mad in this heat," I mutter. "Completely - "
"Let's go for a swim," Louise suggests. "Let’ cool off."
Images of heat-induced madness grow more vivid as we walk along the worn track through the scrub. Louise walks silently in front, and I wonder what she is thinking. It is generally unwise to intrude on such silences, especially with the observations, suggestions and recriminations I really want to make. I decide to save these for later.
On the other side of the scrub the track dips down before rising to a sandy crest covered sparsely with tough sand grass, and once over this there is at last some relief. The breeze, though warm, is soothing, almost intoxicating. I am stung with happiness. I stand with my eyes closed and feel the breeze wash around me. I am aware that I am smiling foolishly, but I am too happy to care. My comfort is sublime. I dream I am alone, drifting through eternity, a single, utterly content being caressed by this divine breath ...
"Better?" Louise asks.
I open my eyes. I am me again. At this place. "Yes," I say. "Better."
The beach is surprisingly deserted. I guess that everyone is reluctant to leave their air conditioners. We stop at a random place, spread our things and shed most of our clothes. I sit cross-legged like some guru.
"Aren't you coming in?"
I am content to sit and enjoy the breeze. I do not want to be wet. I do not want salt drying on my skin.
"Come on," Louise says playfully. "Come in with me." She tries to tug me to my feet. I force a smile and tell her maybe later. She pulls my hand once more before releasing it, her smile vanishing in an instant. She looks at me blankly for a moment before turning sharply and heading down to the water. She walks over the dark sand and dives into the water without hesitation, and while submerged the only evidence of her existence is her small pile of things. I stare at her things, and then I start to bury them. I bulldoze the sand over them, and when they are completely buried I sit back and it’s as if Louise has never existed. I am truly alone, as free as the last living creature.
Louise’s head and shoulders break the surface and sits like flotsam on the rise and fall of the swell. She looks up into the hard, blue sky, then out to the horizon. She is refusing to look in my direction in case I see her looking. I sigh and smirk. I stand and adjust my swimmers.
The water is like the breeze, somehow cool and warm at the same time. I walk lazily into the water, and soon the rolling swell is lifting me from the earth and setting me gently down again. I find this easy rhythm quite hypnotic. I close my eyes. I could almost fall asleep.
“Nice, huh? Glad we came?”
“Yes,” I agree, “nice. But where are these turtles?”
“They come out at night. They come up onto the beach at night and lay their eggs.”
“Oh.”

I am surprised by the number of people who want to see some turtles lay some eggs at 11 o’clock at night. Hundreds of them. Or a hundred, anyway. At least a hundred. Or maybe it’s only fifty. Or eighty. Or one hundred and thirty six. If there were only four people I would still be astonished that they would want sit up all night waiting for something to lay an egg. We are sitting on the ground waiting to be dispatched in small groups as each reptile is spotted making its way onto land. We have been through the turtle museum and have looked at shells and eggs and back-lit photos of turtles laying eggs and even dead babies in jars. People are talking in murmurs. Some - other city folk like us - are looking awe-struck into the vast depths of the brilliant night sky. An old man nearby has brought along a folding canvas chair in which he is sitting, slumped over, snoring gently. I look around and think that I am probably the drunkest turtle watcher present. Perhaps I am the drunkest turtle watcher who has ever lived. What in God’s name, I wonder, am I doing here?
“It’s kind of exciting, don’t you think?” Louise whispers. “It’s like an invasion or something. It’s like being a kid again. I remember when my parents got me out of bed at three in the morning to look at the comet. It’s a bit like that.”
“Did you see the comet?”
“I can’t remember. I just remember that sense of excitement. They said it was a once in a lifetime experience.”
“Getting out of bed at three in the morning?”
“You know what I mean.”
Another turtle has been spotted. Another group is dispatched. By my count, the next turtle is ours. If there is a next one. What if there are no more turtles? What will the troops do then? A constant stream of people is still trickling through the museum and joining the expectant crowd. Why do they assume there will be more turtles? The arrogance, I think. What is it with people?
“What are you shaking your head at, Pat?”
“What?”
“You were shaking your head again. What were you thinking about?”
“Shaking my head?”
“You do it all the time.”
“I do not.”
“Yes you do.”
She could be right. Maybe I was shaking my head. People sometimes tell me I frown too. I frown as I consider this.
“Well?” Louise prompts.
I scratch my head and shrug and wish that I was uncouth enough to open one of the beers I have in my shoulder bag. I just want to get drunker or go to sleep.
“Oh I don’t know, just something that guy said in there,” I lie, referring to the museum curator.
“Mm?”
“Um ... when he told us that the sex of the baby turtles is determined by how deep in the sand the mother buries the eggs. I mean, yeah right. Guy’s got his wires crossed, for sure. It’s just too bizarre.”
Then I think about drinking beer and smoking cigarettes in a crowded pub every Thursday night, from a turtle’s point of view.
The longer I sit and wait the more restless I become. I want to go, but having waited so long it would appear churlish to leave now. Nearby, a fellow turtle hunter is deploying a volley of the most malicious weaponry devised by humankind. The two syllabled -
“Mar-arm?”
“Sh!”
“But Mar-arm?”
“I said sh!”
“Bud I don’t care about the turdles. I wanna go home. Mum? Mar-arm!”
I despise him whilst embracing him as a kindred spirit. I tip my head back and lose myself in the starry sky.

“Did you hear me Pat?”
I cannot tell how long I have been away.
“What?” I say as I close my eyes and roll the stiffness from my neck.
“I just wondered why you did it.”
“Sorry, must have dozed off or something. Did what?”
“Buried my things in the sand.”
I frown as I ponder this. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I don’t think I knew I was doing it.”
“It just seems a strange thing to do.”
Her knees are drawn up under her chin. She is gazing at a twig she is twirling slowly between her thumb and forefinger. Strangely, she looks lost. I wince as feelings stir. I know I love her. I really know this.
“Okay folks,” comes a hushed voice infused with excitement, “we’ve got another one. I’ll take everyone up to ... here -“
“But Mar-arm ...”
“And the little boy too. Everybody follow me.”
Louise tosses the Twig Of Infinite Mystery casually to the side and stands. She waits for a few moments before falling in behind the group as it makes its way into the darkness. I swear quietly as I climb awkwardly to my feet. Using the cover of darkness and movement I fumble about in my bag. I twist the top off the bottle and silently toast the cosmos.
There are people everywhere, shadows moving through the darkness. Here and there torches cut the darkness, beams of light dancing madly across the sand. And after waiting for so long in relative silence the noise comes as a surprise; the white hiss of the surf washing over the wet sand, talk, laughter, the occasional shout. At various points along the beach, far into the distance, groups of people are huddled around pools of light, esoteric rites taking place. I stumble along over small dunes and hollows, entranced by the strangeness of it all. I have lost Louise. I have no idea where my group is.
I come across a small procession slowly making its way down to the water’s edge. At the front of the group there is a woman aiming a torch at the sand just in front of a large turtle which is clearly weighed down with ineffable weariness. A kid wants the torch but the woman grips it with dogged determination.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly.
“What does it look like? I’m leading it back to the water.”
The turtle is not walking or even crawling; it is shoving itself over the sand. Each lurch forward is followed by a few moments of rest.
“Come on baby,” Torch Woman coos, “you can do it. Come on.”
If Louise was here she would be telling me not to say a thing.
“I don’t get it,” I tell the group. “Why ...?”
“Weren’t you listening to the ranger?” the woman admonishes in a matronly tone. “They follow the light. It looks like the moon and they follow it to the water.”
“It’s the breakers, darling,” comes a voice from the entourage. “He said the white light resembles the white of the breakers..”
“It’s the moon, Dad. Of course it’s the moon.”
“But they’re prehistoric creatures,” I point out. “They’ve been doing this sort of thing since ... well since prehistoric times. Don’t you think it’s heading to the water in spite of you and not because of you? Do you really think that waggling a torch about in its face -”
“Excuse me, but I don’t think you’re from this group at all.”
“No. Sorry. Excuse me. I’ll go and find my group, but you keep up the good work. All of you. You’re all doing excellent turtle work. “
I decide to wander aimlessly, drinking as I soak up the balminess, but almost immediately I bump into someone whose job is, it seems, to patrol the beach for stragglers like me.
“Are you here for the turtles?” the man asks in an earnest monotone.
“Yes,” I tell him in my own secret agent’s tone, ”I’m here for the turtles.”
“Then come this way. This one’s laying.”
The man leads me by the arm to a nearby group before vanishing phantom-like into the darkness. I look around at the under lit faces while a park ranger speaks inconsequentially about the number of eggs and the high mortality rate of the hatchlings. Louise is not present, but as no one has yet accused me of being an infiltrator from another group I decide to stay. I look down at the turtle. Its expression seems one of both intense concentration and desperate boredom as soft, shiny eggs fall from its rear end into a sandy pit. The ranger is on her hands and knees trying to angle a beam of light up into the egg-producing orifice.
“And ... yes, here comes another one!”
Another soft egg drops gently into the pit.
“So there’s a lot of job satisfaction, then, in shining a torch into a lizard’s private parts and stating the eye-glazingly obvious?” is a question I decide, inexplicably, to keep to myself. At least for now. I look around at my fellow spectators and am impressed by the range of expressions - everything from the awed to the bored. One little boy is openly disgusted by such a vulgar display. A young girl sitting next to him is not interested in what is happening at the other end; she is content to gaze lovingly into the ancient, glassy eyes. She is muttering to herself, or to the creature, perhaps marveling at the wonderful things those eyes have seen.
“Jesus.”
“Shit.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Oh my god I’m blind!”
“Please don’t take photos,” the ranger requests politely. “It’s not good for the turtle’s eyes.”
She continues to speak, but I am preoccupied with rubbing and blinking the spots from my eyes.
“You sir? Would you like to put out your hand?”
“Wha.. .? I reply as I instinctively put out my hand.
“ .. . to really experience it. Feel how soft it is? Feel the mucusy covering? Pass it along for everyone to experience.”
When I realize what I am holding I cannot pass it on for others to experience quickly enough. I shake my head, baffled by this woman’s behavior, as I flick the remaining warm slime from my hand. Others are apparently getting some thrill out of holding the egg. I am baffled by this too.
“All right,” the ranger calls as the turtle starts to use its thick, leathery fins to flick sand over the nest. “I need the egg back now.”
The egg is not forthcoming.
“Can I have the egg back please. I need to return it to the nest now.”
Milky light illuminates facial shrugs. We look at each other and frown in concern.
“Look, this is serious. If that egg isn’t put back in the nest now it will die. Now whoever has the egg, hand it over. You sir - I gave the egg to you. Who did you give it to?”
“I gave it to him,” I tell her, pointing.
“And who did you give it to?”
“I dunno. Her, I think.”
“Maam?”
“I haven’t got the egg.”
“Then who has?”
“Jason have you got the egg?”
“Why would I steal a stupid turtle’s egg?” is the belligerent defense.
“Because if I find out that you have …” hangs the threat.
“Frisk Jason,” I suggest helpfully. “He sounds like an egg thief to me.”
“Get stuffed mate.”
I wince at the sharp crack of flesh against flesh. “How many times have I told you not to talk like that?”
“Ow. Ya got me on the eye again. This sucks.” Jason marches angrily into the night, shouting back at us, “I haven’t got the stupid egg, and if I did I’d squash it and throw it in the bin with all the smelly rubbish!”
Jason’s mother runs after him. “Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to get you in the eye. I meant to get you on the side of the head. You must have moved. Jase?”
“This is too much,” I mutter as I turn to leave.
“Sir - where are you going? No one leaves until I have the egg back. That egg … if that egg isn’t put back in the nest it will die. Whoever has the egg please think about the baby turtle. It doesn’t stand a chance out of the nest. It’s .. . it’s not fair.” Her voice is trembling with emotion now, and this fills me with contempt.
“Look, forget about it,” I tell her. “It didn’t have much of a chance anyway. You told us that most of them get eaten by seagulls or sharks - what’s the difference?”
“But that’s nature. This just isn’t .. .”
“It isn’t what?”
“Pat? Is that you? What’s going on?”
“Someone,” the ranger accuses in italics, “stole a turtle egg.”
“And who was the genius who took the egg out of the nest?”
“Pat, did you steal that egg?”
I am more depressed than angry that Louise would as such a foolish question.
“For god’s sake, Louise. You must be joking. What the hell would I steal a bloody turtle egg for? Why do you say things like that? I mean, you think someone knows you .. .”
The light is so weak that I cannot make out Louise’s expression. We stand there for several moments, looking blindly at each other.
“I was joking,” Louise tells me as she turns to walk away. “I was only joking.”


The night is long and hot and deathly still. I lay in the darkness with my head tipped back, my mouth gaping. I am desperately tired, but hour after tortuous hour is spent skimming across the surface of sleep. Occasionally I drop below the surface and almost dream, but this does not last and I am back in this box, clammy sheets rippled about me, head tipped back, drinking the hot, still air.
Beside me, Louise is sound asleep. From time to time she will snuffle and snore quietly. She might mutter slurringly. She grinds her teeth throughout the night, a sound so familiar it no longer bothers me. Our naked bodies touch, move apart, touch again.
This will do it, I think, another hour of this will kill me or drive me completely mad. I must fall asleep. I just can’t take any more of this. Not another minute.

“You’re up early,” Louise says from the doorstep of the caravan where she is sitting, brushing her hair. “Did you sleep well?”
“You’re kidding,” I reply as I look down at the large blisters of moisture on my forearms. I have returned from the shower block and cannot tell if the water is from the cool shower or if it is sweat. It is not full light yet and already the temperature is into the high twenties.
“You didn’t sleep well?”
“I didn’t sleep. I was murderously tired and I just couldn’t sleep.”
“I wonder what that means - murderously tired.”
“I don’t know. I’ll leave you to ponder my parlance while I drag my carcass down to the beach. I have to get out of this.”
I make my way to the beach plodding along the narrow path, arms hanging loosely by my sides. I trudge up the sandy crest and stare at a glorious, golden sunrise through stinging, half-closed eyes. My squint intensifies as I see, far out to sea, a giant waterspout. I have never seen one before. I look around for someone to share it with but the only other person on the beach is an old fisherman, and hell, he probably sees giant waterspouts every day of his life. I walk over the sand, vaguely aware of the chaotic mess of footprints, and down to the water’s edge. The sea bed drops away quite sharply and the water level quickly reaches my waist, my shoulders, and then I am swimming into the rolling swell. I remain focused on the waterspout, dancing and swaying on the horizon, as I swim farther out into deeper and darker water. My arms and legs ache as they sweep and scissor. I am in poor condition and am soon exhausted, but I push on regardless. I feel a desperate need to keep going. I want to be far out to sea. I need to make it to that watery vortex. I swim on and on, lost in my obsession.
I am jolted from my folly as true exhaustion sets in. I slip below the surface. My limbs are heavy. I sink further and further down, convulsing as I resist the urge to breathe. My wide eyes scream into the darkness. I see things. Shapes. Shadows. Things moving towards me and away from me. Something brushes against my leg. It feels rough, like shark skin. I tip my head back and look up at the vast halo above and know that I am doomed. This knowledge is terror in its purest, most blissful splendor. I reach out to the light. I can breathe this light. I can breathe it.
The halo shatters as some animal lust possesses me, propels me up with unexpected violence. The light is suddenly hard and dry. I retch into it, drink from it. I hear a strange barking noise and realize that it is my own desperate breathing. My arms and legs, though cramping with pain, have found the life to flail heavily through the water, and I continue to breathe, my breath gradually falling from desperate to merely exhausted.
Using a clumsy series of kicks and strokes I manage to spin by degrees until I am facing the shoreline. I am appalled (and vaguely impressed) by just how far I have managed to swim. I know that I cannot make it back; I can barely keep my head above the surface. I simply cannot make it. I laugh a little and feel hysteria close by. There is no logical way to explain this, I think. How did I - how did this happen? How did I get myself into this?
Through stinging eyes I look at the white ribbon of sand. Even from this distance I recognize the small figure walk down onto the beach. I know she is looking for me. She looks first one way along the beach, then down the other before doing a double salute to the horizon. I smile and want to wave to her but I don’t have the strength. Besides, if one limb ceases moving I know I will sink again.
She sees me. She runs to the water’s edge. She doubles over. Is she laughing? Is she laughing at me? No, she is not laughing. The fisherman runs to her. There is pointing and waving. The fisherman runs from the beach towards the caravan park.
Louise and I look at each other across this seemingly impossible expanse of water, and we wait for something to happen.