A Thorn In The Side

Sandy Cape, WA

He hit me once and regretted it immediately. I didn’t deserve it, knocked on my back with a thump to the floor but I forgave him, I always forgave him. There’s something to be said for the man who hits, hurts and accepts responsibility. Better than the man who holds it deep down and allows his face to read differently. It leaves you unsure where you stand. Where’s the honesty in that?

‘C’mon, where leaving town for a while,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m sick of the scenery around here. It’s time for a change…and I’ve got some reading to do.’

That was my greeting this morning. Just like that. I was a little shocked. I didn’t want to leave our place, but he was determined to go and so I fell into line. I needed him in my life.

‘Sandy Cape’s only a three-hour drive; I’ve got a mate who has an old shack up there and it’s quiet this time of the year’ he said. I wasn’t convinced.

I thought things were quiet enough here.

The car was decrepit and never going to make it, but it battled hard to prove us wrong, finally sinking in sand just short of our destination. There I sat in the passenger seat squinting through the windscreen at the sand dunes in front of me. He was revving the engine in anger, it growled and roared fighting to grip the slippery sand. It was hopeless, all he did was bury it further. So, we got out and stared at the wheels buried up to the axle.

‘Fucker can stay there,’ he spat, ‘We’ll come back and get it another day.’

We grabbed what stuff we could carry from the boot and began heading north along the coast. At least it was early winter. We walked in crisp air and cool sand, the searing heat and glare of a mid-west coast summer now well behind us. Of course, he had to bring those books he’d been reading, making it more difficult than it need be; heavy, religious ones, with old script and gold edging on them.

As we walked along, I thought how little I’d heard him swear, especially given the amount of time he seemed annoyed. He said he was making a greater effort to be a better person, and I loved him for that. It was a change from what I’d been used to growing up.

My mother abandoned me young, took off without a word and my dad was barely around except at dinner time. Then I was shipped off to a family who barely knew mine. We lived in Southern River, a semi-rural suburb with a nice name but no river, just another dump that formed part of the south-east corridor of Perth, that string of suburban dysfunction. Life with them was only marginally better than it was beforehand. I still had my share of neglect, pushed behind my adopted brother and sisters when opportunities arose for fun and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fit in, ended up teased and crying. They were horrible years really. There was bugger all interesting to do, so when I got to my teens I easily ended up in trouble, bored out of my brains. I got belted regularly for it too. A belt, electric cord, fly swatter, cane, my flesh was familiar with them all. Then one afternoon I came home to find everybody gone. For good. I could only whimper.

I ended up moving here, there and everywhere. I was locked up a couple of times and even slept in a cemetery for awhile. Then I met him. He was very sad and like me, numbingly lonely. We’ve been together ever since, sometimes tenuously, but besides that one time when I was hit, it’s been a quiet and secure life that having a steady home can bring, if you’re lucky. I like being with him and trust him more than anyone else I’ve ever met.

It was getting on four o’clock and in the glassy light we came across a stand of trees behind a snaking line of dunes. We headed around the largest, sand whipping off the top by the wind, and saw several metal shacks, tiny tin kettle homes, huddled amongst the trees, each one at a respectful distance from each other. Built in a wise location, tucked behind the second dune from the sea and surrounded by mature peppermint trees planted years ago for just this purpose, they were protected from both the blistering sun and the seemingly endless assault of the wind. These trees were the highest for miles around, an oasis in an otherwise disconsolate landscape of low scrub and small trees that were wind blasted horizontal, like gnarly hunchbacked old people bent over at nasty angles. Besides desperate shade, the other great gift they offered was music. When the wind blew through harmonica shaped leaves, it left a melody behind that made you feel like the world was all beauty and nothing else. Only the Casuarina tree sings more beautifully but there were none of those here.

We scanned the shacks to find ours. It wasn’t hard to spot. It was the one with AC/DC painted in large black letters on one metal wall. Classy stuff. No one else was around.

The floor was square concrete pavers, the ones they use for city footpaths.  A rectangular base for the flimsy walls that gaped with holes that were stuffed with old clothes and rags to keep the wind out. It was a bloody cold room in winter. There was a stainless-steel sink with a few rust marks, cockroach excretions splattered across timber shelves displaying an assortment of mismatched cutlery, pots, plates and mugs. To our great surprise there was an LPG fridge, pot belly stove and a bench top cooker. In the middle of the room were a Formica table and a bench seat. The table had gone black and greasy over the years and scratched into its top was the names of more heavy metal bands. Off to one side was a much smaller room divided off by a dusty brown curtain, behind which was a shabby single mattress resting on top of a couple of pine pallets. It was the only room that had a tiny window.

We walked around the shack where we saw a full LPG bottle, and a red plastic bucket hanging from a tree with holes in the bottom for a shower. A stack of firewood considerately chopped, was waiting and ready next to the shed.

We’d brought some provisions from the car; sugar, Bushell tea, long life milk for cuppa’s, sachets of Maggi noodles, rice, dried pasta, powdered soups, ginger nut biscuits, bread, bananas and some tins of Tom Piper which I loved. Thankfully we found a couple of pillows because we’d forgotten ours, and a heavy woollen blanket which was the kind that railway workers use. Along with our sleeping bag we’d be warm as toast in bed. We realised there was also a gas light on the ceiling. We were grateful for that too. We’d only bought a torch. We lit the fire and felt the satisfaction of warmth. It was basic but beautiful. I was now glad I‘d come.

With the light outside fading, we decided to walk to the top of the dune and look at the sea. There was a long sandy beach with two points of rocky land jutting into the ocean, bookending a gentle bay. We were at the southern end.

‘It’s nice,’ he said quietly.

We stared at a line of white tipped, purple clouds jutted jaggedly above the horizon. Like a Swiss mountain range, I thought. Ambling down to the water’s edge, I stuck my toes in. It was fucking freezing. I hate cold water, but he didn’t, so suggested we go for a swim in the morning. Yeah right.

I went to bed early. It had only gone on seven thirty and I lay there with closed eyes and listened to the melodies of the trees. They did not disappoint as their songs floated through the air, unfolding a symphony inside me. I drifted into that lovely state when you cannot tell if you are awake or asleep.

Sometime later I was woken by the nudge of him climbing into bed in that utter darkness only a moonless bush gives.

‘Sorry if I woke you,’ softly spoken with feeling. ‘Go back to sleep.’

As it was our first night I was hoping for a bit of a cuddle and wriggled closer to let him know, but he made no move to touch me. So, I lay there on my side, one hopeful eye on him and the other buried into the soft pillow.

Over the coming days a convivial routine grew, calming for me but somewhat less so for him. I was concerned how often he read his books, always at the table with a pen scratching away for several hours each day. He seemed consumed by it, flicking pages back and forth in agitation, muttering, sometimes raising his head and staring at a wall like it wasn’t there. Used to my own company I amused myself outside lounging under the trees, walking the beach, checking out the other shacks.

There were odd times when his eyes twinkled, usually in the water where he moved with a sense of release and friskiness. He rolled, dived and dressed his body with the waves and the foam. I always watched him during these times, and he looked back at me, often enjoying the fact I was there watching him like a surfer’s submissive girlfriend. These times brought us closer, and I was now getting a few of those cuddles I hankered for. Sometimes I would sit on his knee, and he’d tousle my hair, nuzzle his face into mine. I would press myself into his warmth, kiss his nose and let him know I loved him.

One evening, stars alive in a black sky, we sat on the sand staring up into a world awash in sparkles. Among them we spotted a pinprick of light low on the horizon. It didn’t dance around like the others. We guessed correctly that it was the light of a distant shack as the next day we met a fella on the beach.

‘Howdy. I’m Sid,’ he said walking slowly towards us.

Just by his gait you could tell he was the salty type. A face of twisted leather, small grey eyes squinting at us through the fleshy entanglement. You could tell he was fit and hardy. Reserved in demeanour, he seemed friendly and sensible. I’m a good reader of character and I liked him. We stood around and chatted for awhile, mostly the usual stuff; weather and suchlike. When he left, he gave me a smile and a wink. We didn’t see Sid after that. Like us, he kept to himself, but we were comforted to know there was someone else around the place. I wondered if he felt the same.

Time drifted along. We journeyed to the rubbish tip every couple of days, mainly looking through other people’s junk in case there was anything interesting, like car magazines or old bottles. But the best times were when we went fishing, which were now most evenings. Not the early mornings though, I’m too lazy for that nonsense. Recently we’d made a couple of trips to the old bunger, burrowed further into the sand and came back with a long fishing rod and some blunted tackle. We’d wade through the shallow water to net darting white bait then head up and along the rocky point to catch fish. These would vary in size, shape and colour depending on which side of the point you fished from. On the bay side it was calmer, so you’d catch sand whiting, herring and the odd pike. On the ocean side, it was rougher, but the rewards were greater. There were fat trevally, skipjacks and coloured rock cod to be found. We’d chuck the rock cods back because…

‘if it ‘aint silver then don’t eat it.’

That’s a rule of fishing he said. And another one to remember is…

‘when the weather is foul for people it is good for fish.’

His tone was authoritative and I closed my eyes to acknowledge his wisdom.

One afternoon we saw a wall of dark thunderheads brewing menacingly on the western horizon. The wind whipped up sand, spitting squalls into our eyes turning the singing trees into squealing banshees.

We shut the rattling doors as tight as we could and waited for the storm to hit. Also seeking shelter with us were the hundreds of thousands of tiny ants that visited us each evening. They were the politest of creatures. Wanting the fallen bits of food from the floor, never once did they interfere with us or our room. Thousands would die as we had no choice but to step on them at times but by morning there was no sign of them. Not a skerrick. They had returned home taking every dead worker with them.

Watching the ant’s loop and scurry, still going about their business, the storm bucketed down, hammering and shaking the shack for an hour until subsiding in violence a little. I could see his mind ticking over.

‘Let’s go for a fish,’ he shouted.

Huh? Are you serious?

‘C’mon, you know the old saying I told you. Let’s go.’ Begrudgingly I followed him outside dragging fishing gear behind me.

We bent our backs into a howling gale, winding our way up and along the rocky outcrop. The wild oscillating swell revealed the meagre remains of an old shipwreck poking out above the water line. Just a few timber beams, vertical like bollards. Waves hissed as and hurled themselves with venom at the rocks, trying to break them, only to retreat to their master, the ocean, in preparation for another assault. The thing with the ocean is that it has plenty of time, all the time in the world in fact to get the job done. Relentless and patient, it always wins.

Giving me a sly sideways look, he decided he wanted to throw a line on the furious side of the rocks. ‘Bloody hell, why on this side? I thought. He sat down on a large rock to sort out his gear, frothing spray drenching his face. I sat next to him and did my best to squeeze my body into a gap between two rocks for a wind break. After putting his heaviest sinker on a ten-pound line, he tied on a triple gang of hooks, baited and nodded that his task was complete.

Pushing one foot against a large limestone rock, he stood up and cast out at forty-five degrees across the wind. This stopped it blowing straight back at us. After only two casts the lined snapped taut, reel clicking on its ratchet and he wrestled in a big, plump three-pound trevally. It was a beauty. With a whoop, he gripped the desperate, struggling fish and twisted the hook inside its mouth until it tore out and blood ran down the side of its gasping mouth. He picked up a short, thick stick and cracked a sharp blow behind its head. The fish thrashed even harder, so he hit it again and threw it into a hessian bag. It would soon be joined by others.

‘Foul for people, good for fish.’ Not true at all.

I was shivering in my crevice when I saw it coming out of the dark sea. A rogue wave, a monster arriving without notice. There was no chance of escaping. It hit like a freight train. The world disappeared. No thoughts, no references, everything was water. Miraculously it didn’t dislodge me from my wedge, just pounded me like a lead-fisted heavyweight. My face hit rock, and I spat out a mixture of saltwater and blood. Disorientated, it took a minute to understand. I looked around for him. Only white water slurped over the rocks where he’d been. I fought my way clear so I could turn around and see behind me, nothing. I looked down, nothing. I spun my head from left to right in growing panic. I screamed his name. I screamed out into the dark boil of ocean. I kept screaming. It was all I could do. Long shrill shouts of desperate fear poured out through my rain of tears.

Then I saw him.

He was a little blob thrashing in the water amongst the upturned timber of the old wreck. Once more I screamed at him but there was no response. I wriggled my way down the rocks to get a closer look. Then I saw him grabbing hold of the beams. They were slippery and rotting from years in the water. Big chunks crumbled under his weight as he fought to keep his head above the water. I screamed again and finally he answered with a scream of his own. I imagined that each wave would peel him away from the beams. There was not a Chinaman’s chance of reaching him twenty feet below and certain he would die, I felt helpless and afraid. I ran away from him. I felt like a coward, instinctively bolting from the point, heading along the beach towards the light of Sid’s shack. The sand was like glue, gripping my feet so I kept trying to find the harder patches nearer the edge of the water. It was so churned up there was no obvious line to follow. I was zigzagging and getting nowhere, the light of the shack always seemed the same distance away, but I kept pumping my legs and tried not to cry.

I thought of him drowning with each step, losing his grip and being sucked down into the depth. I almost stopped to mourn but kept going, and the light of the shack finally drew closer. Exhausted, I got to the sand dune below Sid’s shack. I fell momentarily but willed myself to climb, grovelling on knees. Finally making it over the top, I bashed on the door screaming out to Sid. I bashed again. The door opened and a bewildered Sid appeared in a pair of shorts and tatty old jumper. All I could do was yell some more. He couldn’t understand a word. Between the wind and my gasping, I was incomprehensible. I turned around towards the point and screamed again. I was a good screamer at least. He twigged and we both started running around the side of the shack where a thick coil of rope was hanging from the wall. He ran over and pulled it down. It crashed to the ground, too heavy for me, so Sid picked it up, slinging it easily over his shoulder before we took off over the dune.

Sid got there first and waited for me, slow as molasses. I took him near to the spot where I saw him in the water but was too terrified to look over the top. I squeezed my eyes shut. Sid told me to stay calm and climbed to the top of the rocks, yelling out into the dark. No answer. He yelled again, no answer. I couldn’t close my eyes hard enough. Then we heard another voice, distant and feeble. I snapped opened my eyes, relieved and surging with shame at my uselessness.

‘I’ll throw this out to you,’ Sid yelled holding up the rope. ‘Try and grab it’.

It took about ten long minutes of throws, misses and swearing until he managed to get hold of the rope and drag himself through the water to the bottom of the rocks. But there was little respite there. Each wave tried to break him apart, but he kept a tight grip on the rope. Any wave could be the end of him. It took ages to haul him up and out, scraping skin and bruises all the way. He could never have done it by himself. The sea savvy and strength of Sid saved him.

Black and red like a rotting plum, he fell on the ground. I fell on top of him. Sid stood to one side. Finally, I was gently moved away, and we both gingerly got to our feet. He stood unsteadily, holding out a shivering hand to Sid and thanking him again and again. Sid gave a steady nod and said we should get back to the shack. Hypothermia could set in. Sid put an arm around his back, and he leaned into him for support. I tried my best to help but was getting in their way more than anything else.

Once inside, the pot belly was re-stoked and wet clothes changed for dry ones. We sat around the fire and although the wood was burning, we just couldn’t get warm enough. Sid got up and made tea and we pulled our chairs closer to the fire. We watched the blue light flicker and the wood glow orange. We stared, contemplating what could have been. Sid was the first to speak.

‘You know mate, you were nearly a goner’.

‘Yeah, I know’. He said it just above a whisper, he was so weary. ‘I can’t thank you enough for what you did Sid. I owe you my life.’

‘Not me you should be thanking mate. There is nothing in the world like the love and faithfulness of a dog. He’s the one to thank. Got more loyalty than God.’

‘That’s true,’ continuing to stare at the fire.

Then he put his hand out and scratched my head. I licked his salty hand. I felt warmer now than from the heat of the fire. My shame had disappeared. The night passed slowly, and I stayed alert as he slept.

We left a couple of days later and it was a tough walk back to town for him. He ached everywhere. We found out a Greyhound bus was passing through in a couple of hours, heading to Perth so we waited on a bench with the sun warming our back. When it arrived, the driver wasn’t going to let me get on, but we argued, and my pleading expression changed his mind.

‘Just sit at the back and don’t piss anywhere.’

We got a couple of winks as we walked down the aisle and sat at the back. We looked out the window at more of those bent, arthritic trees. I put my head on his lap and in a short time the rhythm of the wheels rocked us both into sleep.

It felt strange being home again that night. I felt different, he was different. I lay down on the couch still drowsy from the trip and looked up at him. I watched as he went over to the bookshelf and started pulling out the odd book here and there, looking at the cover for a moment, sometimes turning over a couple of pages and then throwing it in the bin. I realised that he hadn’t brought any of the other books back. He was smiling.