Penguin Books

RAW BLU E

Kirsty Eagar grew up on a cattle property in central Queensland. After studying economics, she worked on trading desks in Sydney and London
before changing careers, wanting a life where she could surf every day. She travelled around Australia in a four-wheel drive, worked as a cook and
personal trainer, and began writing fiction. Kirsty is married with two daughters and lives on Sydneys northern beaches.
www.kirstyeagar.com

RAW BLUE
Kirsty eagar

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2009
Text copyright Kirsty Eagar, 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of
this book.
penguin.com.au
Thanks to Coastalwatch (www.coastalwatch.com) for permission to use their name and forecasts in this book. Thanks also to Bernard Zuel and the Sydney Morning Herald for permission to
quote his work on pp. 17, 51 and 134.
ISBN: 978-1-74-228640-2

Contents
1 Him
2 88888888
3 Outside
4 Honey-warm light
5 Sugar
6 Six purple fish
7 A wafer moon
8 Saturday night
9 Surf porn
10 Bitter stings
11 Collision
12 Closer
13 Die and lay down
14 Not yet
15 Salsa
16 Its not easy sometimes
17 Blue people
18 The Brazilians
19 Fridays bubble
20 Sex
21 The Tasman Sea swell
22 Turtlebacks at Dee Why
23 Toxic shock
24 The lagoon
25 Going for an early
26 Deeper
27 Her
28 Trust
29 Shadows
30 After
31 The trouble with you
32 Laying down
33 Flammable
34 Easter
35 Every right
36 The glitter skin
Acknowledgements

1
him
Coastalwatch
Swell size 11.5 metres Swell direction E
Certainly some surfable waves around today

Friday morning. Im heading down to the break, feeling antsy because I slept in. Id meant to surf early, but maybe its not such a bad thing. Getting
there after nine means Ill miss the pre-work crew. Instead, Ill join the old boys, students and shift workers who have rearranged their lives to
better suit their surfing. Theyre more relaxed about things, not jamming waves in. On weekdays people surf the break in shifts: the dawn service,
the mid-morning slackers, the lunch-hour rush, the after-school grommet fest and the just-got-off-work party. When guys at the break ask me what I
do, what theyre really asking is, how is it you can surf mid-morning on a weekday? How are you making it work? Thats the big question in
surfing: how do you work less and surf more?
As I drive past Car Plus all the flags out front are being blown by a northerly, which is good because the break loves anything from the north and
gets nasty in a southerly. Its a relief to know Ill be in the water soon. By the time I pull up in the top car park it feels like my stomach has been
scooped out. I always feel like that until I get my first wave. Whether its good or not doesnt matter; Im put back into my body again.
I head over to the lookout spot, twirling the Lasers keys around my finger. Its the forty-ninth time Ive paddled out here. In the beginning I was
nervous, but now Im reasonably sure that the whole clump of surfers wont turn around and order me out of the water. Besides, Im never the only
blow-in, there are others. And Im female, so its easier for me. Outsider guys have it harder; the local guys drop in on them deliberately, teaching
them a lesson. But only if they go to the arrowhead, where the waves peak first and the rides are the longest. If they know their place theyre left
alone. I try not to look at people. I sit on my board and stare hard at the horizon like the next set is the most important thing in the world. Which
it is.
Theres a guy standing on the bench seat at the lookout spot. The seats been bequeathed it says so on a plaque fixed to its back. Its in memory
of someone who was a surfer and a friend. Two nice things.
I want to stand on the seat beside the guy so I can see, but I feel intimidated. Instead, I hover to the side where the grass is patchy from hundreds
of surf checks a day. He doesnt give any indication that he knows Im there, which is unusual because people always look around when you walk
up. If theyre local, they expect to see someone they know. If theyre not, they expect to see a local. Theyll usually give you a nod, but this guy
stares out at the surf as if its the only real thing and the rest of the world is just advertising.
I feel like Ive interrupted a funeral and now I have to pretend Im not here. I stand on my tiptoes so I can just see the water over the scrubby
vegetation behind the pine railings, then my gaze slides back to him.
The air around him is snap frozen. Hes in his mid-twenties, his face so shut off and wary I wonder whats happened to him. His skin is the sort
that burns easily. The ridges of his ears are pink and freckled. They stick out a bit through his hair, which is light brown and lank. Its scraggy,
seventies style; he hasnt had a cut for a while. Hes wearing old jeans, thongs and a white T-shirt, and he wouldnt be out of place in a pub or a
TAB.
After hes walked off towards the car park, I take his place on the seat. Finally I have a clear view of the surf and I feel an electric charge. Its a
glitter skin day. The ocean is a vivid emerald colour and the wind ruffles the wave faces so that they shatter the sunlight like glass. Seeing that
glittering skin always tightens my throat with joy. Its stupid, but thats how I feel: joyous. I forget about the underbelly of things, my secrets, and I
feel easy and free. I know that Im meant to stay on the surface and be happy. Just enjoy being alive.
Glitter skin days are my favourite kind of surf conditions.
On my walk back to the car I pass him. Hes pulling a shortboard out of the back of a battered metallic-blue Commodore station wagon and
doesnt pay me any attention. I strip down to my bikini and pull on my spring suit. Im painting my face with zinc cream when I notice hes pulled
his T-shirt off and hes wearing a white singlet underneath. Im surprised by that; it seems old-fashioned and for some reason I like it. I wonder
what he smells like then I push the thought away, feeling like Ive swallowed a snake.
I make a deal with myself as I walk down to the Alley where the lagoon empties into the ocean and a rip runs alongside the rocks of the tidal
pool, making for an easy paddle out I cant come in until Ive had ten waves.
The water is clean and glassy. I open my eyes while Im duck diving under the lines of foam and see the white water rolling overhead like storm
clouds. There are a lot of bodies in the line-up. I paddle out with no real idea of where to go and somehow end up in the middle of the crows.
Faark, Davo. Whatd ya fark it up for?
Ya didnt, did ya? Faark.
Eeeeeuurgh! U p it, Bobby! Go son!
Faark. Good one, eh? Wave of the faarken day.
There are five of them clumped together in Alley Rights, on the inside of the arrowhead. Theyre zinc-faced, balding, tanned and wiry, and
straight off a beer ad: A big faarken thirst needs a big faarken beer.
I float belly down on my board, just to their left. They hassle each other for everything coming through. Its funny. Occasionally two of them get
up at the same time and the one on the inside chases the other one across, whooping and hooting. Theyre loving it, being out here together in
their little club. Salty old cods.
Theres a big one out the back and it looks like itll peak towards me. The nearest crow starts heading across and I paddle hard because I dont
think hell be in position to get it. Hes only a couple of metres away when the line peaks. I feel the surge of it and I stare across at him. In my
head I know he wont have it, but my instinct is to back off and let him take it. But he shouts, Go, go, go, go, go, at me, meaning, I cant make it,
its all yours.
The peak passes us by. We both lean back on our boards, pulling them up short in the waves wake like galloping horses.
Shit, he says, looking across at me. Would have been a good one.

I give him a tight smile and say nothing. Im no good at talking to people I dont know.
I realise I wont get anything near them and decide to try further over, halfway down the line-up. I tiptoe through the middle, trying not to get in
anybodys way, hoping they wont think Im snaking. Then I sit up, take a look around.
The waves are shifting around more today. Every now and then one breaks further down and closer in, near me. So as long as Im ready, and
prepared to paddle my arse off, Ill be in the clear.
My first wave is awesome. Its mine from the start because there is nobody on my right. It surges beneath me and the lip pitches forward,
throwing me on my board. I see the shoulder of the wave on my left, walling up, and in that moment Im nothing more than the sum of sensations:
power, push and speed. I shift weight onto my back foot, driving the board up the wave face and swooping in a turn off the top. A blond guy
paddling back out stares down the line at me and gives me a Eeeeurgh! I make another turn. The length of the wall rears up, curving like a cupped
palm, and I crouch lower, picking up speed before kicking out as it finally closes down, my ride ending pretty much at the sand, in line with the
middle of the top car park. I let myself fall into the froth. Oh. Oh, oh, oh. This big burbling laugh gets knocked out of me and I give myself a hoot,
so full of fizz that Ive got to let some of it out. I feel light and free and that theres only this.
And I know its quicker to get out and run all the way back up to the Alley rip and paddle in there rather than trying to fight the sweep. Its
while Im running, seeing the blur of sand, water, sky, grinning like a goofy kid, that I feel for the first time Im allowed to be here.
But on my next wave I pass the guy from the lookout spot. Hes out wide, paddling back up to the arrowhead. Hes watching me as I get to my
feet, and he watches me pump across the face, and I see him turn his head to keep watching me as I pass him. Im sure, then, that he must have
noticed me at the lookout spot. He was watching me there too, Im certain of it.

2
88888888
Caf Parisienne, Manly, Friday night. Orders come in waves. After ten oclock there is a lull and I start making the Caf Parisienne version of
hollandaise sauce, reducing some vinegar with peppercorns and a bay leaf, and setting up the food processor on the bench. I wash my hands for a
ten-Mississippi count with soap and warm water before I crack eggs into my palms, letting the whites sag through my fingers into a bowl and
throwing the yolks into the Moulinex. After I add the reduction to the yolks, I turn the food processor on and watch its twin blades spin a yellow
tornado.
Adam comes in while Im drizzling melted butter through the hole in the lid. He slams his plastic box full of plates, cups and food scraps onto
the bench near the washer.
I hate bussing, he shouts. Bloody Emilios always got me bussing.
Its the only way he can stop you eating the contents of the cool room, Adam, I could say, but I dont. I nod and smile and dont take my eyes off
the yellow string of butter. Adam likes to talk because when Adam talks he doesnt work. My backs aching and tired from surfing and it hurts my
neck to look sideways. I dont want to talk.
U rgh. I hate it. I hate it, my precious. He pulls up the top half of the dishwasher so that steam billows into the room and slides the tray of
finished plates over onto the bench to his left. While hes waiting for them to cool off, he throws another rack on top of the sink and starts stacking
up. Halfway through he loses interest and wanders over to me.
Yucky poo. He sticks his finger into the drizzling butter and licks it.
Adam.
Adam has some kind of skin condition, which means open sores on his hands, arms, legs and face all the bits of him that you can see, including
the sticky little fingers he likes to touch everything with. Hes told me that its Golden Staph; there was some long, involved story about how he
went to hospital to get his wisdom teeth out in his first year at uni. I didnt take it all in. And I dont believe hes got Golden Staph. Adam says a lot
of things.
Im so bored. So bored.
His glasses are misted up and he looks like a mole. He considers the Moulinex again and I wonder when he last washed his hair.
Why dont you just slop it in? he asks. The butter.
Youre the one doing a science degree. You tell me.
He sniffs. Then he reaches for the plastic sauce bottle of old hollandaise on the shelf to his right. He squeezes some into his palm and licks it up.
My stomach clenches.
If I put it in too quickly itll separate. The sauce will curdle, I say in a tight voice.
Ooh Rrrr-ight Adam likes drawing words out. When hes not around, the other staff pronounce his name Ad-dom, so it sounds ridiculous,
like condom or aplomb.
He leaves the sauce bottle on the bench. I reach across him to put it back on the shelf. We leave the hollandaise out all the time. The kitchen is
always warm and keeps it at the right consistency. The thought of that worries me sick. I think of the bacteria multiplying in the hollandaise, the
protein in those raw egg yolks loving the kitchen warmth (between 5C and 60C, ideal conditions for bacterial breeding). On my first day I
questioned Emilio about it. In a testy voice he said, If youve got time to make up four batches a day, go for it. I try to make a fresh batch every
shift so no one dies from food poisoning, at least not on my watch. Clostridium perfringens, Salmonella, Staphylococcus aureus in my mind the
words look like long numbers comprised of 8s. I see them increasing and increasing and increasing.
888888888888888888888888888888888
8 is just an infinity symbol the right way up.
I switch the Moulinex off, pull the plug out of the socket for safetys sake, then rinse the blades in hot water at my sink. Im paranoid about
putting them in with the normal wash. Too sharp. What if someone grabs them without looking? While Im doing this Adam sticks his fingers into
the jug and scoops up a handful of hollandaise. I almost gag. I look at the sores on his hands and my mind is so crammed with 8s I can hardly
think.
Come on, come on, give me some room, I say, and I jostle Adam in a good-natured way. Youve got to jolly Adam or else he sulks and gets
vicious.
He retreats back to his stacking, slamming plates into the tray, spraying them vigorously.
So are you like one of those high school drop-outs? he shouts.
I mouth like a fish, suddenly winded. I started a degree in business communications.
Oh? He says it in doubt. But you dont go to uni now, do you?
How does he know? How can he tell? No. I stopped.
Whyd you defer?
I dont correct him. I dont tell him I dropped out, not deferred. Dont tell him how I got in my car to hand in an assignment, eyes grainy from
cramming all night, and I just couldnt bring myself to start the motor. I sat there for thirty minutes, maybe more, frozen. Then before I knew it I
was heading for home, driving up the F3 in a car packed with gear from the place I was sharing in Surry Hills. I hated Surry Hills. Even the leaves
on the trees were dirty. In the beginning I was okay with my flatmates, Karen and Matt the pothead, but over time I could hardly talk to them.
Sometimes Id go into the kitchen and the two of them would shut up and Id know theyd been talking about me. And I hated being away from
the ocean. Without it, I felt like I was shrivelling up.
I just wanted to think, I say.
I finish funnelling the hollandaise into a plastic bottle. Then I rip off some masking tape and stick it on the front of the bottle and write: Carly,
05/11. I can feel Adams scorn.

Later, I open the door of the cool room and startle Adam in there. Hes standing in front of the cooked-meat shelf with one of the containers
open. I can see the masking-tape label fixed to the front of it: Thai curry, Kylie, 03/11. Hes been scooping it into his mouth, using his hand like a
spoon. My stomach turns over.
Shouldnt you be out front, Adam? Bussing?
I flatten against the cool-room door but his bulk still brushes me on his way past. Hes left the lid off the container and I shut it thinking that if
Ive got time Ill tip the curry out and make a fresh batch, free from 8s. But I probably wont get time. There are fifteen boxes of pre-made pastry
and bread dough in the freezer room that need to be emptied.
I use a box of frozen croissants to wedge open the freezer door. I get the heebie-jeebies when Im in there with it closed, a horror of being locked
in somehow. The freezer is nested inside the cool room so its not like you get much of a break from the cold with the door open the cool rooms
temperature is 4C. If someone blocks the door to the cool room Im still screwed, but I will get a slower death.
Whoever took delivery of the frozen stuff was supposed to unpack it. Instead, theyve stacked the boxes up inside the freezer doorway,
completely blocking access to the shelves. I look up at that tower of boxes and I start to cry, big wet snotty sobs. I dont know what Im doing. I
should have stayed at uni like a normal person, like everybody else. Then Id be nice and clean and safe, doing nice, clean, safe things. What I cant
get over is how quickly it happened, me falling out of my own life.

I close the kitchen at eleven-thirty. Ive just finished putting the chopping boards and fryer baskets through the wash when Georginas perky face
appears in the window.
She dings the bell even though she knows Ive seen her.
Nachos, wedges and a steak sandwich, lovey. Ta.
I open my mouth to tell her that the kitchen is closed but shes disappeared already. Deep male voices reverberate through the window from the
front and I can hear her giggle. I ding the bell back and wait.
The kitchens closed, I tell her.
Her blue eyes look incredulous and I wonder why she cannot seem to see the clean, wiped spaces and the cover thats been placed over the deep
fryer.
Can you do it for these guys? I know them from school.
I turned the grill and fryer off half an hour ago. I told you, remember? The oils cold. Itll take ages to heat up again. And my shifts finished. Im
off now.
She tilts her head at me, tweaking her short black hair as though shed like to say something more. Georgina makes me feel uncomfortable. Early
on she toted me up and decided I was short of whatever it is that she thinks is important. Shes studying marketing or something.
Im trying to bristle up so I dont apologise. The kitchen shift always finishes at twelve. The fryer is always turned off about half an hour before.
Same as it ever was. I shouldnt have to tell her the news.
She disappears from view. A moment later I hear her low muttering and one of the male voices saying, Well, tell her to turn it back on.
I scuff out to the office. The roster is open on Emilios desk. Emilio himself is long gone, he slunk out at ten. He had no reason to slink, hed
been in here since seven in the morning. But hes a bit of a martyr, old Emilio.
I take off my apron and cap, pull the elastic out of my ponytail and scrabble my fingers through my hair. Its lank and oily from the cap and my
scalp feels tight and sore. Then I hunt around on the desk for a pen to sign off with, spotting the yellow sticky note that Emilios pressed to the
roster.
Carly,
Can you do the lunch shift front of house Sunday?
Thanks,
E.

I give the note the finger. Sunday and Monday are my days off and even if they werent there is no way Id do front of house. Im not going to
stand behind that register, meeting and greeting people, talking cheery shit with them. I hate people. I can only just deal with the other staff, and
thats because if they want to speak to me they have to ring a bell and look through a little window.
Emilio knows this. I told him when I first got the job that I only wanted to do kitchen stuff and I could only work the night shift. I said I was
happy to work here so long as he understood that, which sounds high and mighty, but I said it in a nice grovelling way. And he nodded like hed
heard me. But now he keeps pushing for more, all the time. I hate that about people. Why cant they just respect what you want, instead of always
suiting themselves?
All the time now Emilio says, Great job with the kitchen, Carly. Things seem a lot smoother since youve stepped in. Were going to have to get
you out front soon. Give you a turn on coffee.
As if coffee-making is the pinnacle of achievement. When he says those things, I get a cold panic. I feel like Im being bulldozed slowly.
I sit down in Emilios chair and rub my face, feeling the grease and salt on my forehead. Theres just no way Ill do front of house. I pat around
for the sticky notes and write Emilio a message: Regretfully E., as I told you when I started, Im unable to do day shifts. Apologies for not being
able to help you out on this one. C. A business communication. I started a degree in it, dont you know?
Hes never asked me why I wont do day shifts, but Ive got an answer figured out in case he does. Ill tell him Ive got another job as a carer. I
look after an old sick lady, just up the road from me.
He wouldnt accept the truth: I wont work days because thats when I surf, Emilio. Thats the only reason Im doing this job and thats why I
wont work an hour longer than it takes to cover rent and petrol. I will do whatever it takes to surf every day. I love it that much. It is my only
good thing.
Front of house like hell.
Between Emilio, Adam and Georgina, Ive had a really great night. Bees are loose in my head, buzzing and stinging.

I decide to go the long way home, Wakehurst Parkway. I just want to drive. I want to smoke too, but thatll have to wait. Im no good at smoking

I decide to go the long way home, Wakehurst Parkway. I just want to drive. I want to smoke too, but thatll have to wait. Im no good at smoking
and driving at the same time, the ash always comes back in the window at me and, besides, I like to take my time over a cigarette, make it an
event.
Once through Seaforth and on the open road, I speed up to ninety, winding down my window. I push through to a hundred and ten, and the
lights from the cars coming the other way blind me. I feel like Im being sucked towards them, like you can be sucked over the edge of a cliff. I
focus on the white line on my side of the road. The urge to let go of the wheel and just see what happens is compelling. If I live, Ill wake to find
myself in hospital. I wont have to do anything, deal with anybody, talk, be scared anymore, because I will have become somebody elses
responsibility. And if I die, well then everythings solved. No more being angry like this.
Its so tempting. I frighten myself when I cross the bridge near the back of the lakes at a hundred and twenty. The bitumen is raised there and
when I hit it at that speed, for a moment I think Ive lost control and the cars going to hit the side rail. But then Im over the bridge and I brake
sharply. I squeeze the steering wheel tight, leaning forward like Mr Magoo, really trying to concentrate on what Im doing. I pass Garden Street,
which is where Id usually turn to get to Powderworks Road and home, and turn off at the smash repairers, making my way through the back
streets to the break.
I pull into the top car park and sit there in my car, smoking out the window, listening to the surf. Its too dark to go down to the beach, just
being near it is enough.
If I close my eyes I can imagine crashing. I see it in slow motion, like a crash-test dummy reconstruction where Im the dummy. The Laser
swerving across the road to hit a brick wall the one near the sports grounds at the back of Seaforth yellow bonnet crumpling, metal screeching,
indicator lights exploding and spraying orange glass. My neck whiplashes forward, the windscreen shatters and the car presses in around me like a
cocoon. Tight, tight, tighter, the warmest hug in the world.
It scares me. I dont want to do it. But sometimes I think its the only way Ill be able to turn off whats in my head.

3
Outside
Do you mind me doing this? Hannah calls from the kitchen.
What? I frown down at my newspaper. If I stare hard enough and long enough maybe shell be quiet and disappear back upstairs.
Washing my face in your kitchen sink. I could use your bathroom sink if you did mind.
No. Feet, well but your face, thats okay.
Are you sure, Cookie?
Go for your life.
She appears in the doorway in her baggy white sleeping T-shirt and undies at least I think shes wearing undies and I hope to neither confirm
or deny that as a fact. Shes not wearing a bra; I can see clearly the outline of her heavy, sagging breasts under the T-shirt. Her long, slim legs make
her appear oddly high waisted. When she is dressed, its either in the suits, stockings and short heels she wears to work, or in the red hotpants and
black ankle boots she wears when she goes out dancing at her salsa club. Her wardrobe is schizophrenic.
Rubbing at her face with a towel, she asks, Go for your life?
It means do whatever you want.
She stares at me intently, trying the phrase out again. Go for your life.
Hannah is Dutch and speaks English really well, but shes always working on it. She knows more about grammar and punctuation than I do, and
English is my first language, and I started a degree in communications. I have not told her that last fact though. I havent told her much about me at
all. As far as she knows Ive always worked in kitchens, which is why she calls me Cookie.
I look down at my paper again. Ive got segments of Saturdays Sydney Morning Herald spread out on the floor around me and Spectrum open
between my legs. Im trying to read Bernard Zuels review. Bernard says the band in question arent the most advanced songwriters Im likely to
meet: their melodies can be haphazard and when it comes to song structures, simplicity usually rules. But hes cool with that in this case because he
says this band has a good ear for the pleasure of noise. I like that. The pleasure of noise. And he talks about jagged strips of guitar, which is
another thing I like.
When I read Bernard I feel like I can make sense of the world. I never buy the CDs hes talking about, I just like the reviews. I wish I could get
Bernard to come and review my life for me, point out the obvious, tell me where the structure isnt as simple as it should be. Then again, I
probably wouldnt like it at all. It would be a bad review.
Joost hated me doing it.
I blink up at Hannah. Hated you doing what?
Washing my face in the kitchen sink.
Oh.
So, now Im away from him, Im gonna do it all I want.
She shoots me an angry stare, as if Ive somehow turned into her husband. Shes always doing stuff he wouldnt like two weeks ago she had her
buttercup-blonde hair cropped short because Joost liked her to wear it long. But its not like hed know. Hes back in the Netherlands, hoping
shell sort herself out here in Sydney and eventually go back to him. Shes some sort of engineer, working at a firm in Frenchs Forest, being loaned
out for a while from head office back in Amsterdam. I know all about it. More than Id like to, in fact, because for some reason Hannahs attached
herself to me since I moved in. We share a two-storey duplex on Powderworks Road, five minutes drive from the break. Shes got the upper storey
and Ive got the lower storey.
When I answered the ad in the Manly Daily, Jean, our landlady, said, Youre very young And I knew she was worried about me meeting the
rent payments. So I told her my parents had gone overseas and rented out their house, and I was to use their rent payments to pay my rent while
they were gone because I didnt want to live in a house in the suburbs by myself when I could live near the beach. The easy way this lie just rolled
out of my mouth surprised me. I never used to lie.
Anyway, the lie worked because Jean then took me to meet Hannah. I thought Hannah would be the perfect neighbour: she works days, I work
nights, and shes twenty-nine, ten years older than me, so we wouldnt have much in common. But since Hannahs plumbing has blocked up shes
been in my space constantly: using my shower, using my toilet, washing her face in my kitchen sink
At that moment my mobile rings and I answer it without checking the screen, which is a mistake because its my mother and Ill have to be
careful what I say Im not about to explain my home situation to Hannah.
Your Brother has put a deposit down on a unit, Mum tells me.
She never uses Keiths name when shes talking to me. I asked him once if she refers to me like that, as Your Sister. He said, yes, she does, and
what she says is usually bad: Your Sister is working in a restaurant washing dishes think of it! all that money we spent sending her to
university. Shed never wash the dishes at home.
If I was a sheep, Id be black.
Youre kidding, where? I say.
Terrigal.
That close? Our family home is at Forresters Beach on the Central Coast. The fact that Keith has bought near there is to me both insane and
oddly fascinating, as is the fact that Keith is buying property at twenty-four. It shouldnt be. Hes been saving since he was born.
Mum speaks of my older brother with awe; as if hes not her son but someone she knew once whos now moved on to better things. Every day
she scans the Central Coast Express Advocate for his by-line.
Its a good investment. You know what its like there in the holidays you cant get a car park. Thats what you could have, Carly.
I dont even like Terrigal, Mum.
My name is Carla Lee and Im a nineteen-year-old disappointment.

My father kicked me out of home, which was when I moved down here. Maybe I deserved it our fight that night was a screamer, both of us
yelling at the tops of our voices. It was over me dropping out of uni. At least on the surface thats what it was about. But for me that fight was over
old things. Age eight, someone is stealing from school bags and its mentioned in the school newsletter. My fathers voice: Have you checked her
room? Age fifteen, busted sneaking in from a leagues club disco, drunk, too much make-up. A virgin. I dont care how many men you sleep with,
but while youre under my roof youll abide by my rules.
My father is a man who takes five beers to a barbecue. Five. Not a six-pack. Because thats what hes calculated hell drink while hes there. I
hate that about him.
Be reasonable, love, Mum says in a wistful voice. Your father just doesnt want to see you throw away your future.
That burns, the fact that shes toeing the official line. Always with her, its him first, as though God died, making him God. If I was just angry itd
be easy, but it hurts too, it hurts so bad, because I love my mum and Im scared being out of my family. But when Im in it, I feel like Im being
pressed into the wrong shape. Things with Dad will never be the way I want them because Im not what he wants. Im trying to accept this, but its
funny how you forget all the time.
I think what scared me about the night of our fight, was how close I came to letting it all out. Everything. All the things I dont tell anybody. I
wanted to scream it into his face, like it was his fault somehow. That frightened me. Sometimes I think about what would have happened if Id
done this, and I can see the look of disgust on his face.
When I dont answer, Mum is quiet for a moment, then proceeds to Lee family business as though nothings wrong at all: what my aunts and
uncles are doing, what my cousins are doing. She spends a lot of time worrying about what other people are getting up to. Only what theyre
doing, though, not what they are, or how theyre feeling. Im not even sure if shes ever really looked at me, seen me.
I wonder what shes said about me leaving. Maybe the PR is that Im still at uni. Either way Im gone, so the outcome is conveniently the same.
The women in my family, they talk about carpets and couches and feature walls and pergolas; how they went to take a look at the new shopping
mall/recreation club/homemaker centre; the holiday they went on; the musical they saw; what so and sos eighteenth, or christening, or wedding,
or some other event was like. Its not bad, but it can make you feel lonely if youre not into that stuff yourself.
While Mums talking Hannah reappears in the doorway, brushing her teeth. Shes staring at me but I can tell shes thinking about something else.
She keeps glancing at her watch and eventually goes back into the kitchen, her two minutes up. A second later I hear her rinsing her mouth out at
the sink. She always brushes her teeth for exactly two minutes. She times it Im not kidding. Two minutes is a long time to brush your teeth. I
tried it and my wrist got sore.
Mum cuts the call just before her ten minutes is up shes got some deal with Telstra. For a paranoid moment I wonder whether my location
will show up on her phone statement they know Im in Sydney, and they know Im working, but thats all they know. Then I realise that even if
they knew where I was they wouldnt come after me. Im outside the family now.

4
honey-warm light
COASTALWATCH
Swell size 0.51 metre Swell direction E
There will be some leftover swell in the 23ft range early, easing to a less consistent 2ft during the afternoon. Protected northern corners are best

Sunday. Im down there by ten, later than I would have liked. That sort of time is fine for weekdays, but on weekends its late enough for the
crowds. Weekends are a free-for-all. Youve got to be there by six-thirty at the latest.
Im sick with tiredness should have gone to sleep when I got home from work. I woke up at nine-thirty with newspaper pages strewn over me
like blankets. Now all I can think about is getting into that salt water.
I park in the back car park, lock the Laser, tuck the key into my leg rope and jog over the dune. At the waters edge I put my leg rope on and
rub some sand through my hands sunscreen on your palms can make you slip while youre getting up. Its really summery today, the wind hot
and blowy out of the northeast. Its mid tide, pushing up to high, and the swell is getting lazy. The beach is a shifting tapestry of bodies and the
line-up seems equally congested, a traffic jam of surfboards, bodyboards and kneeboards. Too crowded. I decide to stay on the inside, Alley Rights,
which turns out to be better than it looks and I get three hollow rights in quick succession.
Back in the spot, I slide off my board and duck dive under the water, going deep, wanting some sand to rough up my wax. When I surface, I
notice that two boys have moved in on me. One of them is staring across at me, skinny-chested in his black-and-red spring suit. I shoot him a look
because Im pissed, even though thats not really fair because I wouldnt do it if he were older, and its not like you can own ocean space.
I rub the bit of sand Ive collected over the wax on the deck of my board. Most of it just swishes off. When I look up again the kid has paddled
across and is right there near me. Hes lying down on his board, ankles crossed, leaning on his elbows so his hands can talk to each other. Hes
considering me with a preoccupied look on his face, like Im an equation hes got to solve before he can go to lunch.
I stare at the incoming swell, paddle for a wave and miss it. When I turn around hes still watching me. This is ridiculous.
I sit up on my board. Nice today, isnt it? Waters getting warmer.
He comes to slowly I can see the split second when awareness slides across his face. Yeah.
Hes Eurasian, with hazel eyes and beautifully clear skin, not a pimple on his face. Hes younger than me, Id guess early teens but Im not good
with ages. His neatly cut black hair is drying off, so hes been sitting around on his board for a while.
He frowns. Do you surf here a lot?
Well, only since I moved here. Which was I pause as though Im calculating, which Im not. I know full well its been two months, midSeptember, I think.
Do you know me?
Im not really sure where hes coming from. No, I dont think so.
He sighs and rubs one eye. I mean, have you talked to me before or anything?
No. Why? When do you surf?
Pardon?
For some reason that hooks me. I like him. Its because hes used the word pardon with the most serious look on his face in the world. However
old he is, he acts like someone a lot older.
What time of day do you normally surf? I ask.
After school.
Mornings as well?
No. I sleep.
I surf mornings. U sually after nine. And sometimes I come back after lunch, but before schools out. So by the time you get here Im probably
getting ready for work. Im pretty sure Ive never seen you before.
Getting ready for work You work at night time? he asks, momentarily distracted.
Yep.
Theres a prostitute who surfs here. She works at night time.
I blink. Oh Im not a prostitute. I, uh, work in a kitchen. You know, chef stuff.
Strictly speaking, its not chef stuff, its cook stuff. But the word chef gives people a quicker visual.
A waves coming, a good one, chest-high at least, and where were sitting well get the shoulder. I turn and paddle for it, hungry in my belly. Im
on my feet when I hear a whistle and see the guy charging across towards me. I kick out, pissed off, and land in the water beside my board with a
plop. It would have been a nice wave. I drag myself back on my board and paddle over to the kid. Hes still in my spot, lying down, looking back
over his shoulder. I raise my eyebrows at him when I get closer, but he doesnt smile. Hes got a distrustful look on his face.
I sit up on my board, clearing my throat. Your friend is getting some good waves. I mean the other boy. He keeps trying to do aerials.
Hes not my friend, Ive just known him for a long time. We went to primary school together and he used to tell people I was retarded.
Why did he say you were retarded? Theres no point being polite, I want to know.
Because I see colours and stuff.
I wait for a couple of beats but thats it, thats all he says.
I dont get what you mean.
He flops off his board and pulls it sideways across him, hooking his arms over its deck, his toes poking out of the water. He glances at me. I see
his teeth are very white and even. All of his features are like that. More delicate, more pure and refined than either white or Asian.

At primary school, right? We had this teacher who sometimes used to write stuff on the board in coloured chalk. One day she was teaching us
how to spell Wednesday and she wrote it up on the board in purple. And I put up my hand and said, But Miss, Wednesdays green. And all the
others laughed because they thought I was being funny, but I wasnt, because to me Wednesday is green.
I frown at him.
Okay. When I hear Wednesday, or see it, or think it, I get green in my head.
Like the word in green?
He breathes out as if its a real effort or this is something hes gone into too many times to mention. No, just green. This yuck green. Not
horrible or anything, just blah, boring. Same as like for me, Friday is yellow and cloudy, soft. Its pretty good. Sevens sort of like that too. A
is reddy red, tomato-sauce red. Four is red too, but swirly with pink bits. C is whitey-grey , he waves a hand from side to side, sort of
stripey.
I chew this over for a bit, really wanting to say the right thing. So you get extra.
Yeah.
Theres a wave coming. I let it pass. How long have you been like that?
Since forever. He pulls himself back up on his board. Its not just me although at school Im the only one. Other people have it too. Its called
synaesthesia. It means you get your senses mixed up. Some people dont believe its real. They think youre just bunging it on. But that teacher,
shed heard of it before some artist had it or something. Then the principal got all interested and started asking questions. I never thought I was
different before then. I thought everybody was like that.
Wow. Ive never heard of it.
He shrugs. Theres heaps of stuff on the net. There are different types too. Lots of people get colours from letters and numbers, but some people
get colours from music. And it doesnt just have to be colours. Some people taste stuff or smell things.
God, thats really interesting. Is it just colours for you?
He nods.
Do they get in the way?
Not really. Most of the time theyre just there. Like when that teacher wrote Wednesday on the board in purple, I could see it was purple, just,
in my head there was green. He splashes the water with his hands. Sometimes it gets in the way, but thats with people.
You get colours from people too?
He nods. U sually only people I know. Like, I wouldnt normally pick up something from someone I dont know.
Theres something deliberate about the way he says this and suddenly I realise thats why he was staring at me. I want to ask him which colour
hes getting from me, but the way hes acting suggests it isnt great.
Theres an awkward silence, him staring steadfastly at the horizon. Then his face lightens and he smiles.
Ill tell you a good one. Theres this girl I like. Lara. I really like her, hey. I dont know if its because shes hot or whatever, or because of what I
get from her. She gives me all this honey warm light stuff. It just makes me feel really good. You know how sun comes through leaves? Thats
how the lights like, but wavy. Sort of. The lights like like
Is it like the light patterns in water? I ask, trying to be helpful because Ive got a feeling hell keep going all day to describe it just right.
He blinks, looks down at the sunlights netting stretched over the sand at the bottom of the water. Thats it. Thats exactly it. Honey water with
light through it. Except no. Its more like warm air, not water.
Okay, so honey-warm air with light patterns through it.
Yeah. He nods, deadly serious.
I smile. Thats great. I think youre lucky.
But I havent finished.
Sorry.
What I found out was, I dont even have to be around her. I cut her picture out of our class photo and when I look at it I get the same feelings.
And if someone says her name I get them too. So if I want to feel good, I take out the picture and say her name a few times.
Who needs drugs?
Yeah.
Thats cool.
Then he refocuses on me and frowns. Theres wariness in his voice when he asks, Whats your name?
Carla. Carly, I mean. Thats what most people call me.
He nods. Im like that. My names Daniel, but Im Danny.
Theres a lull in the swell and in our conversation. We sit in silence for maybe two minutes.
Then he says, Im going to catch one in now. See you later.
Bye, Danny.
After he paddles off, I realise that its the first time Ive talked to someone at the break. Other people watching us would have thought we knew
each other, just like the crows and other regulars know each other.

5
sugar
Marty crouches down so he can see through the window and dings the bell five times in succession. Im standing at the end of the pass where Ive
got the mixer set up with the dough hook attachment on it. Im making a batch of biscotti and Ive just added lemon zest. The Official Franchise
Recipes folder is lying open on the bench and I check the biscotti ingredients again, finding my place with a floury finger. Im following the recipe
because I havent made it many times. There are confidentiality clauses on every page in the folder.
When I dont pay him any attention, Marty dings the bell twice more. Pssst.
What? What do you want?
He remains hunched down, looking through the window, but doesnt speak, just widens his dirty-green eyes into an intense stare. His lips are
apart, revealing the slight overlap of his two front teeth.
I look down in the mixer bowl at the pasty white blob being pummelled by the dough hook.
He dings the bell again.
What?
Without blinking, he runs his tongue over his lips. Marty is one of those guys who likes to leer. It gets to me, makes my skin prickle. Theres
something both exciting and horrible about it.
As usual, hes not wearing his Caf Parisienne cap. Emilios at him all the time about that. He keeps it tucked in the back pocket of his black
pants. Hes got light brown curly hair that would look stupid if he brushed it.
Emilios voice floats in from out the front somewhere. Marty? How about you use the downtime to stack those beans?
Marty ignores him and keeps staring at me. I shake my head and hope my face isnt turning red. I feel acutely stupid.
Emilios voice again. Marty? Marty. Come on, mate.
Emilio has zero control over Marty. When theyre on a shift together Marty drives the coffee machine, which is usually Emilios territory. Emilio
retreats to the register and does his worried-brown-eyes act with the customers. Marty talks dirty to the regulars while hes pulling shots. You want
me to put sugar in it for you? Stir it up? You like sugar? Everybody needs a bit of sugar sometimes. I think Emilios a little jealous of him. Poor
Emilio takes it all day long: from Michael, the owner, from customers, from uncontrollable staff like Marty.
All of a sudden Marty drops the leer. Nah, he says. I made you a latte, eh.
He places a tall glass with a serviette sleeve wrapped around it on the windowsill and disappears. Its dumb but Im flattered. I havent asked
him for a latte. He probably just got an order wrong. I take a sip. Its heavily sugared.
I drink way too much coffee on Martys shifts.
Roger walks in and dumps a tray full of dirty crockery on the bench beside the sink.
They got you bussing tonight, Roger?
No, he says, without turning around. Dish pigging. Kylies bussing but shes on a break.
Kylie? I stare at Rogers broad back. The elastic waist on his black pants is stretched and they sag down, showing his bum crack crisscrossed by
his apron strings. Ive seen this so many times I dont even feel embarrassed looking at it any more. Kylie is my equivalent during the daytime. She
does the kitchen stuff. Shes twenty-two and from Wagga or Dubbo or somewhere a small town girl. She followed her boyfriend to Manly and its
not working out for them and she misses home, and all of these things are affecting her physically. Shes starving herself.
Kylie shouldnt be doing a double shift. Her body doesnt have the energy to spend.
Do you know when she gets off break? I ask Roger.
He ignores my question, slamming the lid of the dishwasher up and sliding the steaming tray of plates inside across to the cooling bench. Rogers
an alcoholic, although you wouldnt necessarily know that from looking at him, and hes not a big communicator. He works hard as a dish pig. I
think Emilio pays him cash in hand. Tonight hes sporting a three-day growth and it suits him. You notice his eyes too much when hes clean
shaven theyre a bloodshot pale blue and seem riveted by things in his head, not the things they see.
Hi sweetie, Kylie says, coming through from the front, handbag on her shoulder and her cap and apron in one hand.
Youre working a double shift?
She stops at the end of the pass and I can see the angles of her. When I first started I thought she was just really slim, but after a while even
baggy black pants cant hide the sharp edges of bones.
Yeah. She tilts her head to the side and blinks her toffee-coloured eyes. Shes got freckles the same colour. But her face gets more skull-like
every day. She looks like a little girl trapped in an old persons body.
You gonna be okay bussing? Do you want to swap? I wouldnt make this offer to anybody except Kylie. I hate bussing cleaning tables and
bringing the dirty stuff in to Roger. People like to sit with their chairs pushed right back and they never move for you, even though they can see
you there, struggling with a heavy load, trying to get through. Its the pits.
No, Ill be fine. Kylies got a scratchy voice that goes up and down when she speaks. She smokes, so it could be from that. What are you
making?
The biscotti. What do you think?
She puts her head over the mixer bowl and has a good look. Her shaggy red-brown hair looks like a wig, too big for her pointed little face.
Looks good.
Im going to put extra stuff in it. Im thinking pine nuts, toasted hazelnuts maybe some nutmeg.
Thats the way, she cackles, grinning.
Its a point of honour between the two of us that we deviate from the official franchise recipe with everything we make on the generous side.
She gives me a hug. Thats what I like about you. You make everything with love, like me.

And she really means it. Shes a hearts and flowers girl. Two weeks after I started she gave me this naff card that said Youre so very special on
the front of it. It had a picture of a little cat holding a balloon. It was to thank me for doing the close properly, making things easier for her in the
mornings. Stu, the guy who works the kitchen on my nights off, leaves things looking like a shit fight after every shift, apparently.
The bell dings and Emilio appears at the window. His brown hair is sweaty at the front and he looks tired. Im expecting a food order but all he
says is, Hello, Carly, how are you?
I smile at him. Good thanks, Emilio. How are you?
I do have a soft spot for Emilio. Not least because hes a walking franchise manual: Make sure you greet every staff member as soon as they
arrive. A good manager makes employees feel that their contribution to the running of the hospitality operation is important.
I finish off the biscotti dough, shape it and put it in the oven. Then I lug the mixer bowl over to Roger. As I approach I see him wolf down the
remains of a steak sandwich and my stomach turns over. He eats food scraps all the time and everybody pretends not to notice. Whenever I ask him
if he wants me to make him something for dinner he says no. A couple of times Ive pretended to get an order wrong and made an extra dish and
then asked him if he wants it, and hes still said no. He likes to eat other peoples leftovers. Maybe because he thinks its a secret. Like Kylie thinks
the fact she doesnt eat is a secret.
Behind, Roge, I say, leaving the bowl on the floor next to him.

We get hit about half an hour later. The line for coffees and food stretches out the door. The little printer sitting at the edge of the window spews
out food orders faster than I can get through them so that eventually the line of dockets almost reaches the floor. I dont understand these people.
Why dont they go to a nice place? One of the funky restaurants in the back streets away from the Corso, where they can sit down and relax while
some nice waitress comes and takes their order. Why do they like queuing to order, then carrying the coffees theyve waited for around with them
while they fight to find a seat in a faux French bistro? Its the final proof that location is everything. Were on a corner block. Were a big caf with
a cavernous wooden interior and an expensive floral arrangement. People see the queue forming and rush to join it in case theyre missing out on
something.
Things quieten down at around eight-thirty. Marty comes out and stands behind me while Im slicing the baked biscotti, pressing the whole of his
body up against mine.
I twist around. What do you want, Marty?
You, Carly Nah, biscotti.
He takes the end slice, pushing it in his mouth so his cheeks balloon, then grins at me. Nah, can you make me some scrambled eggs?
Does Emilio know?
Emilios got this thing about staff paying a token amount towards the food they eat. Probably to help cover the cost of the food they steal.
Come on, Carls.
Emilio.
Itll be cool, Carly, Carly, Carly.
He leans in and blows against the side of my neck and a wave of goose bumps wash over me. I clear my throat to say something light what?
but hes walking off towards the office. In his aftermath, I feel like I do when I paddle out and I havent caught a wave yet. Like Im out of my
body.
We keep a jug of beaten eggs and cream in the fridge. I pull it out and heat a pan on one of the hobs, spraying it with oil. U sing a ladle, I
portion out a double serve of eggs. When I ding the bell, Martys out front making himself toast in the grill. He carries it out the back in his hands
and plops it down on the plate with his eggs, along with five sachets of butter.
Thanks, darlin.
As he walks out to one of the tables at the side of the caf, I can hear Emilio saying, Did you pay for that, Marty?
When Kylie brings in her next load, I stop her on her way back to the front. Hey, do you want me to make you some dinner?
Her eyes lose focus. Shes doing that more and more and it worries me. Brains need fuel to work, too, dont they?
Like ah Greek salad or something? I say, trying to reach her. Or how about a Caesar salad? Im thinking if I use the magic word salad she
might say yes. As far as I can tell shes surviving on four skim milk lattes and fifteen Marlborough Lights a day.
Kylie blinks and comes to. I ate in my break.
Kylies always just eaten. And she does eat, she just eats healthily Georgina repeated this to me like a truism the other day. Emilios eyes skip
over Kylie when he asks her if shell work a double shift. Marty doesnt leer at her. Nobody says anything. It does my head in. Cant they see shes
committing suicide?
Me, I know shes killing herself. And I also know that me making her a salad isnt going to stop it. Thats because a while ago I recognised
something in Kylie. Its the need to be alone. Kylie is alone all the time. She doesnt want to know how you are or what you did yesterday because
shes completely preoccupied with calories consumed and calories denied.
I recognise this in Kylie because I can relate to it. Im not interested in saving her or anybody else. Im only interested in a beautiful saltwater
skin; in the next time Ill be thrumming across it. I have to surf every day, sometimes until Im so physically tired I can feel muscles ripping in my
upper back. That way Im too tired to think or remember, too tired to hate myself, too tired to be angry. Because when Im angry theres no telling
what Ill do, especially if Im driving a car.
But that night, driving home, I dont want to crash. Instead Ive got the radio up loud and the front two windows wound down so that air rushes
through the car. Im thinking about Marty, what it would be like to have his hands on me.
Surfings the only sex I get. Board fins come in small, medium and large. Theyre stiff and give you rides that are smooth and fast. Wax sounds
like pornography: Sex Wax, Quick Humps, Mrs Palmers, The Five Daughters. Surfer chicks like a stick between their legs. Gettin a few? Getting
any?

6
Six purple fish
I wake with their voices in my head. You want a crack? Aw yeah, good one, mate, leave me the sloppy seconds. Are you up for it or what? Yeah,
righty-oh then nah, not with you watchin me. Go on then, get into it. Their stupid, slow Australian-male voices.
I cant make their voices stop.
My disgrace, oh God, I want peace from it. This is why people kill themselves, they cant get away from the things they carry in their heads.
Shame isnt a quiet grey cloud, shame is a drowning man who claws his way on top of you, scratching and tearing your skin, pushing you under the
surface.
I curl up into a ball. On the ceiling of my bedroom theres a square of moonlight and in it the shadow of the palm tree outside my window. The
wind is making it move so that it bows and lifts itself over and over, looking like a restless hand with too many fingers. Its hideous.
I wish I could bury this, but there are reminders everywhere. Stories in the media: a football team and a woman; drink spiking; packs of males
picking up girls at train stations. All different, but the same. Men doing it, women taking it. Same as it ever was.
This is how it is for me: every time I meet a new guy, I listen hard to his voice, wondering if itll be one of the voices I carry in my head. I dont
roam much on the internet because Im terrified one of them might have had a mobile phone and taken photos of me as it was happening. Ive let
my hair grow long since it happened so I look different, so even if I turn up somewhere in cyberspace no one will ever match that girl to me.
Rape is the perfect crime because the victim is the guilty one. I did not fight back; I did not say no; I did not make a sound.
My top sheet is twisted around one of my legs like a tentacle and I kick it off in a panic, fighting my way out of bed. Then I stand there,
breathing hard, not sure what to do, just sure that I have to do something, because this is unbearable. Theres crap all over the floor and I stare at
the shadows of it, wondering how these things came to be strewn around my bedroom.
I pat around for my shorts and pull them on. Resolved now, I switch on the light and gather up my doona and a pillow. I find my keys on the
kitchen bench and lock the glass sliding door to the deck behind me.
After Ive knocked on Hannahs door, I wait. I knock another three times, getting louder and louder, and Im just about to give up and go back
downstairs when I hear footsteps on the other side of the door.
Hannah, its me. Carly.
The outside light comes on. I hear the sounds of her unlocking the door then it swings open and shes standing there, her white T-shirt billowing
in a gust of wind, hair all sleep-mussed, face creased.
Im so sorry, Hannah, for waking you up, but I This is a bit weird, but can I sleep on your couch tonight? I just feel really horrible.
She squints at me, sees that Im about to cry. But why You are Yes, yes. Come in.

When dawn comes, the ocean looks bruised. I can see part of it framed by trees through Hannahs lounge room windows. Being higher up shes got
a better view than me. The sky is a feverish yellow and completely clear except for six small purple clouds just above the horizon. They look like
fish. When I see them I say Oh out loud. Theyve surprised it out of me. After the night, six purple fish seem like a promise that there will be
something better soon. Its fragile, but there all the same.
I go to sleep.

The noise of an alarm. I fight it, not wanting to surface, feeling sick with tiredness. I remember that Im at Hannahs and its her alarm and I dont
have to worry about it. It keeps blaring. I bury my head under my pillow, rubbing my cheek against the hard seat of Hannahs blue couch.
Hannah rolls out of bed with a thump and thuds across her room. The alarm is cut off. Then comes the quick thump-thump of her feet rushing
back to bed. I feel bad for waking her at two in the morning.
Im just starting to dissolve again when another alarm goes off. This one has a different noise. Its shorter, more urgent, high-pitched. Bip-bip-bip
bip-bip-bip I groan, confused. Theres a smattering of footsteps, but this time in a different pattern. From the echoing noise, I guess the alarm
was in the bathroom.
Silence. Im paralysed. Sticky with sleep.
Another alarm goes off. This one is close, jarringly insistent. I pray Hannah will come and make it stop because its doing my head in. Hannah
thuds into the room. Her thudding is unbearable too. I peek out from under my pillow and see the flash of her white T-shirt. She goes to the
bookcase and reaches for something high. And then theres silence again so sudden and sweet. Like a leaf see-sawing to the ground, I slip back into

Aaargh. Another alarm, an old-fashioned bell-ringer. Hannahs out of bed, rushing through the lounge room past me and heading into the
kitchen. I hear the scrape of her moving a chair and I sit up to look at what shes doing. Shes standing on the chair, reaching up on top of a
cupboard, bringing the alarm down and turning it off.
Jesus Christ, Hannah. How many alarms do you have? I ask, my voice thick.
Hannah looks at me weirdly as though she doesnt know who I am and she doesnt care either. Shes not wearing her glasses. Five.
The fifth alarm goes off. This one in her bedroom somewhere. She flashes past me, running from the kitchen to her room, then dropping to her
knees and crawling in underneath her bed. The alarm stops and she re-emerges with a small travel clock in her right hand.
She comes into the lounge room and sits beside me on the couch, yawning and smelling sleep-musty.
I rub my face. Why do you have five alarms?
Well, otherwise I turn them off and go back to sleep without even knowing what I am doing.
I clear my throat. Im sorry I woke you up last night. I was lying in bed and I was sure I heard a noise, so I

Hannah waves her hand dismissively. It does not matter.

I like that. Its very European of her.
Cookie, could I ask you to do a favour for me this morning?
Sure.
I washed my sheets last night. Could I ask you to hang them out for me? Could you do that for me, please?
Okay.
She holds up her hand, looking stern. But I will have to ask something of you.
I stiffen. Okay.
It will require you to curb your messy ways. I would like you to hang them out with at least, at least, four clothing pegs fixed to the top of each
one. That way they cant come off and fall on the ground in the dirt and so forth. And with this wind they should dry quickly, so could you take
them off for me and fold them up neatly? I will i-ron them later.
I cant believe she i-rons her sheets. Actually, I can believe it. This is the woman who told me she likes her own name because its symmetrical.
What I cant believe is that she needs five alarms. Or even one. Cant she just set her head with a time to get up?
I think of her hotpants and the men she brings home with her from the salsa club. Shes the weirdest mix of chaos and control.
Okay, I say again.
She smiles. Good. Now, Ill make us some tea.

Even though Hannahs place has got a better view of the ocean than mine, I wouldnt want to swap with her. Her front door is at street level while
my place is tucked away. My deck is cool too, in amongst the trees like a tree house the house is built on such a steep slope that Im still
relatively high up. The washing line is under the house. Going down there is like going mountaineering. Hannahs got me paranoid about her
bloody sheets so I hang them perfectly. When theyre dry which she believes will be at approximately ten fifteen Ill take them down and fold
them.
I get changed into my bikini and head up to my car, which I keep parked on the pavement. The carport is for Hannahs silver Holden Barina
she pays more rent than me. Its just past eight oclock and traffic is streaming up and down Powderworks Road people on their way to work and
mums taking kids to school and Im standing there in my bikini top and shorts, loading my surfboard into the back of my car. It makes me feel
free and anxious at the same time. I mean, right now I can surf every day; Ive set my life up to get what Ive always wanted, to live the big surf
dream. But how sustainable is this? I can keep it up if Im not worried about doing anything more than paying the bills; if Im not worried about
the future and all that. Am I worried about the future? I dont know. When I think of the word its like seeing a cavity, a space where a tooth used
to be.

7
a Wafer moon.
COASTALWATCH
Swell size 0.51 metre Swell direction ESE
Northeast seabreezes forecast for later so go early if youre keen. Water surface conditions are bumpy and there are some mixed-up 23ft sets around but nothing special

I park in the top car park, and with some sort of weird instinct I know the guy from the other day, the one from the lookout spot, will be there
even before I see the battered blue Commodore station wagon in amongst the cars near the lifesavers building. I dont even bother checking the
surf. I need to be in it, it doesnt matter if its good or not.
I watch him out there as I warm up near the waters edge, circling my arms slowly, my back and shoulders protesting like old machinery.
Everything feels so tight that at first I dont think Im going to be able to paddle. He surfs old school, with big muscular turns and cutbacks. Its
coming up to full tide though, and when he takes a right he only gets a short stretch of wall before the wave fattens and dies away. He turns off,
still standing as his board sinks slowly under the water, and I think, but maybe Im imagining it, that hes staring in my direction, taking a good
look.
The days fresh now, but its going to be stinking hot and blowy later. The suns got a bite to it already. Im wearing an old singlet top as a quasi
rash vest and my boardies. If there was nobody out Id just wear a bikini the less you wear when youre surfing the better it feels, provided the
waters warm enough but thatd be like giving a free show to the guys out there. They perve all the time.
I paddle out and sit on the inside. Hes sitting in the middle, planted on his board, chest-deep in the water, as still as a statue. I try to put him
out of my head but Im aware of everything he does. Hes wearing an old black T-shirt and black-and-white boardies. No leg rope.
Even the bunch of crows in the arrowhead can barely be heard, muttering amongst themselves quietly when normally theyd be squawking,
laughing, shouting. It feels like the world is waiting for something. The ocean seems restless; the waves are fat and crumbly but theres a lot of
water moving around, surging, sucking, shifting sideways. Theres a strong sweep running down the beach and I start paddling against it. When I
look at the dunes to check my position I see the moons still out, hanging low in the west, looking transparent. Six purple fish and a wafer moon.
Somethings changing.
Ive got an airy feeling in my stomach this morning. Most of it goes away when I get up on my first wave of the day, which turns out to be a
choppy surge rather than a wave and dies out on me in the first few metres.
I belly flop in the water and paddle back to where I started. Hes looking over at me and for a moment I stare straight back at him. You can do
that to people in the surf, not when youre right next to them or anything, but from opposite sides of the line-up.
Not far from me theres an old guy resting on his elbows on an old wooden malibu. Hes out most days. Hes too old to be one of the crows
really old, maybe eighty. Im sure hes going to kill somebody one of these days because he cant control his mal. He wears a crash helmet. When
he catches waves he rides the fall on his belly then gets to his feet.
He looks over at me and raises his bushy eyebrows.
How are you going? I ask.
Well, Im still alive, arent I?
That knocks a laugh out of me. In spite of everything.
I let myself drift down in front of the lifesavers building and paddle in closer to shore. The waves arent any better there, too full and fat, but of
course, like an idiot, I catch one that re-forms and sucks up on the shore break and I get worked. I pull my board out of the suck and stand there
with my hand on its deck, waiting for the next lot to pass, pushing it over lines of whitewash like a speedboat.
I dont see him on the wave coming towards me until its too late to get out of his way. For a moment I freeze, wondering if hes going to hit me,
but he kicks out at the last minute. The wave sucks up on top of me and I dive under the surface, digging my hands into the sandbank, letting my
board trail behind me. When its passed, I start paddling out, duck diving through another line of foam. Hes in front of me, using slow, efficient
strokes. If Im not careful Ill catch up to him, so I go slower, my throat tight.
He glances back around at me and stops, his board drifting. I give him a nod but keep paddling.
Gettin a few? he asks.
Yeah, its a bit fat though, isnt it?
You normally surf here?
I almost stop paddling, taken aback by the question. Is he going to call me a blow-in or something?
Havent seen you here before. His pale grey eyes give absolutely no information about what hes thinking.
I havent lived here long.
Right. He draws the word out and starts paddling, keeping pace with me but staring out at the horizon like hes no longer interested.
I slow down so he can draw in front of me, thinking thats all, feeling bruised. Hes still beside me. Why doesnt he get a move on? So I start
stroking hard, flustered, wanting to get away from him.
Whered you move from?
The fact that he doesnt bother looking at me while hes speaking is annoying.
The Central Coast.
Yeah? Whereabouts?
Forresters.
Forries girl, eh? Like it here?
Yeah, I do. Its a beautiful break.
Yep. Its nice all right.

Its a tortured conversation, if you could call it that. And then were out in the line-up again, drifting in the middle ground between the
arrowhead and the beach, with nothing much coming our way.
How long have you been here?
I glance over at him. Pardon?
He raises his voice. How long have you been surfing here?
I dont know. A couple of months?
Thats why. Talking to himself not me.
Why what?
Hes watching the approaching set. Why I havent seen you before. Ive been away.
I want to know where. And I want to know why he looks so guarded and wary. But what I ask is, How long have you been surfing here?,
because its what Im supposed to ask, so he can stamp out his localness.
He just shrugs. A while.
We start paddling to make it over the first wave of the set.
Im Ryan. When I say nothing, he adds, Got a name?
Carly, I say, eventually.
When I look over at him hes paddling hard to get in position for the second peak and I feel like Im already forgotten.

8
Saturday night
As soon as Emilio leaves, Marty goes out to buy beer. He returns carrying a six-pack of Carlton Draught.
You want one, Roge, mate? he asks.
I pause in my cleaning up, curious to see what Roger will do. Hes slamming dishes into a rack, spraying them viciously. He looks up at Marty
but doesnt answer, at least not that I can hear.
Marty walks behind him, making a face at me. Were both thinking the same thing: Rogers an alcoholic.
You want a Carlton, Carly?
Okay.
A Carlyton. He screws the top off a beer and hands it to me, closing his other hand around mine as I take the beer by the neck. I smile at him
and wrest my hand free, for once not feeling embarrassed. The radios blaring, Emilios gone, there are next to no customers and its Saturday night.
Im relaxed.
Martys dirty-green eyes are really bloodshot and he sways slightly like hes drunk already, but his voice seems perfectly clear. You coming out
after this, Carls?
Fine Young Cannibals are playing on the radio. She drives me crazy.
Where?
Dunno. The Steyne. You, me, Georgina, Roger.
I wish Georgina wasnt on shift with us. Are you coming, Roge?
He mumbles something, blasts the hose.
Marty pulls his pants low and twists around. Hes got half his bum hanging out, like Roger. I push him in the back and he turns around, pulling
his pants back up.
Is he tired? His eyes look so heavy-lidded. Maybe hes on drugs or something. I dont know anything about drugs.
Nah, what do you say, Carly? Marty asks, opening a beer for himself and taking a big swig.
Okay. How long are you going to be though? You guys dont finish for ages.
You can sit here and wait. Have a few drinks.
You dont finish until one.
Well, just hang around and take it easy, Carly Carl.
The bell dings. Georginas at the window, her blue eyes anxious.
Hey, wheres my beer? she says, sounding raucous in a forced way. Her eyes flicker from Marty to me.
I get an insight into her then. She thinks were having fun without her and its killing her, making her question everything she thought about
herself. Marty hands her a beer through the window.
Sit out front, have a couple of beers, he tells me again.
When Im done closing up the kitchen, I go out the back, sign off and then lock myself in the staff toilet. I strip off my chefs whites, let out my
hair and try to fluff it up a bit. I wipe my face over with paper towel, spray myself with fresh deodorant. At least Im wearing one of my black
Bonds T-shirts, which will be fine for The Steyne. Black shirt, black pants, black boots.
I clomp out front and tell Georgina and Marty Ill be back when theyre closing down. Then I push through the crowds on the Corso making my
way to the beach, feeling pleasantly buzzed. I havent eaten since breakfast so the beers hit me like a hammer. I sit on the concrete steps at the
beach front, enjoying the lights of Manly. Id like to have a cigarette but I dont like smoking around people, and, anyway, I think Manly council
has passed some legislation about smoking on the beach.
The moon is weird tonight. A yellow devil with a knowing face and hard triumphant eyes. The top of his head is cropped off diagonally, as
though hes wearing an invisible hat on a jaunty angle. U sually when I see the moon I feel like Ive been blessed, but not tonight. This moon is
telling me to watch my feet.
On my way back to the caf I buy a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald. Theres still half an hour to go before Georgina and Marty finish up.
Taking a seat out the front, I glance in at Marty, whos filling the coffee grinder with beans, spilling half of them on the floor and not seeming to
notice. Hes got to be on something. Theres only one other couple in the caf besides me. Its one of those nights where Manly is pumping with
life but nobody can settle. The crowd walks up and down the Corso, worried they might be missing out on something.
I start reading Bernards reviews. Bernards my ritual. Sometimes he writes articles for the news section on weekdays but only when something
big has happened in the world of rock and roll, like someone important has died. Theyre okay, but his reviews are better. Thats when you get the
feeling that to borrow Bernards parlance Bernard is riffing, tap-tap-tapping on his computer keyboard in a darkened room, his concentration
momentarily distracted by the flickering of a neon sign outside his window (Im thinking Kings Cross, probably). In between bursts of typing he
pauses to suck back on a beer, and while he works he listens to old LPs because their sound is pure and deep, not like the digitised sine curve of a
CD.
Well, thats what I like to think anyhow. My idea of Bernard has got a fair dash of romanticism. The rock critic, a dying breed, sort of like the
last cowboy.
This week Bernard is being cheeky. His review of Korns Live and Rare is downright flippant: Hey, Korn, live and rare? Hey, Korn, we dont care.
And thats it. Thats it! But he gives me the good stuff in a review of Sodastreams Reservations. He says, This is delicate low-key pop, sad and
slightly fluttery, but laments, Sodastream dont break your heart in the way you want them too. The best Bernard reviews are full of tragedy.
Youre so brown. Georginas voice. I look up to see her wiping down one of the tables near me. She peers at my arms. Is it fake tan?
I clear my throat, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. Its from surfing. I put sunscreen on but I guess its not enough. Im going to be a prune when
I get old.

Georgina straightens up. Do you surf?

I nod.
Like really surf? Or are you just learning?
I shrug. I surf.
Can you take me sometime? Ive been wanting to learn to surf.
She says it as though its not the hardest sport in the world, just something you pop out and do, like taking a driving test.
Yeah, okay.
I dont know why Im saying yes. Ive taken people surfing before and its been a waste of time. Not one of them has passed the paddling test.
Thats the way you know youre going to stick with surfing, if you never give up when youre trying to get out, even if its really big and the lines of
white water are relentless and youve got spaghetti arms and you havent moved more than ten metres away from the shoreline in the twenty
minutes youve been paddling.
Really? Youll take me? Georgina squeals.
I nod. Ive only got a shortboard though, so you might have to get a board. You know, something bigger to learn on.
Ive got a board. I bought a really cute one with frangipanis on it so Id be inspired. When can we go?
Well, I hate frangipanis, but what I say is, Whenever you want. I surf every day. Just ring me when you want to come.
See, there it is. I want Georgina to like me. I hate that about myself.

The Steyne is crowded. We sit on stools around a table downstairs. I cant hear what Georgina is shouting at me but I nod anyway. She goes over to
Marty and pushes her way in between his knees to shout in his face. Hes nodding in time to the music and she must take that as a yes, because she
rushes off.
When I look over at Marty again hes watching me. He stands up, grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet, wrapping an arm around my
shoulders.
Come on, he says in my ear, lurching suddenly to the right. Lets go.
I steady him. What about Georgina?
Heavy-lidded, he tries to compute what Ive just said. Then Georgina is back, looking sulky, making a big deal about the three bottles of beer
shes placing on the table.
Later, outside, my ears are still ringing from the music.
Well, thanks guys, that was fun, Georgina shrills.
She sounds so sparky and I wonder at her energy. I couldnt force a voice like that if I tried. Marty staggers sideways, bumping into me.
What do you want to do now? Georgina asks, looking at me because Martys staring down at the pavement.
Get Martys stomach pumped, I think. No, Im going home. I am so tired.
The night seems like an empty promise. I feel older than I am, old enough to not enjoy sitting around silently in a place where we couldnt have
talked to each other even if we did have something to say. I wish that Marty was home in his own head but hes missing in action tonight.
Do you want a life? I ask Georgina, then blink when I realise what Ive said. I mean a lift?
No. I only live down She points in the direction of the wharf.
Okay, well, Ill see you guys later. I smile, holding up my hand in a wave, and leave Marty to Georgina, who wants him for sure, even if shes
not completely certain what shell do with him.
I dont even care. My head is full, my back is aching from an eight-hour shift, and I just want to be home. Ive drunk so much and I feel so sober.
I walk down to Pittwater Road and then cross at the lights. On Kangaroo Lane, sound stops. Things become quiet like all other life has been sucked
away. I hear footsteps behind me, off in the distance. I look back over my shoulder and see Marty, hands in his pockets, swaying slightly as he
walks. He gives no sign of having seen me. But even so, I walk faster.
I see his car parked there at the end of the lane, a cream Holden Kingswood, and I realise that he wasnt following me anyway.

Cookie? But what are you doing, Cookie, lying out here?
I come to, realising a shadow is standing over me, and I jolt like Im being electrocuted and try to scream. All that comes out is a strangled noise.
But Cookie, its me.
I look around, confused. I must have fallen asleep. The last thing I remember is lying back on the deck with my hands under my head, looking
up at the moon, listening to the noise of the surf pounding away in the distance like a construction site.
What are you doing here? What time is it? I ask in a hoarse voice, craning my neck to look at Hannah. Shes wearing hotpants and boots. Have
you been out?
She nods. Her hair looks nice, feathered around her face like shes had it blow-dried or something. Shes not wearing her glasses and her green
eyes are sparkling.
I met a man tonight, Cookie.
Another one? Where? At your club?
Hannah nods and sits down, her legs stretched out in front of her.
I sit up, stretch, then shimmy backwards so Ive got my back up against the brick wall of the house. As Im doing this, I collect the glass jar with
three butts in it and the packet of matches that were on the deck beside me. I push them in behind me. I dont think Hannah notices.
What time is it?
Hannah looks at her thin gold watch, holding her wrist up high to catch the light shining out from my lounge room. It is three fifty-three. She
squints. No, three fifty-four. His name is Victor. Hes from England, but his ancestry is Jamaican so he has a dark skin colour. He can dance very
well. She says ancestry like ansheshtry. In the same way that she can be enshooshiashtic about things.
He salsas?

Yes. He is one of the best dancers at the club. Tonight he danced with me. She gives me a smile. Ill tell you something, Cookie, you should
come dancing with me.
Im not really into that stuff.
Ah come on, Cookie. It is something different. Otherwise all you do is surf. Come next weekend, after you finish work.
Well see. Ill think about it.
She thrusts out her chin, looking pugnacious. Yes or no. I would like you to be specific. Itll be fun. I want you to come with me.
Why?
Because I like you, Cookie.
I sigh. God shes relentless. Okay.
And straight away Im resentful. Ill have to get out of it somehow.
Then you can meet Victor. He is so graceful, you know? And he was so attentive to me. He asked me to go home with him, but I said, If you
want to see me again, Ill be here next Friday.
You didnt want to go home with him?
Hannah purses her lips. Well And then she smiles. Maybe next time.
I swear, sometimes Hannah makes me feel like an absolute virgin.
Were silent for a while. I yawn. Im feeling really grainy, my mouths dried out from the beers and my heads aching from the cigarettes. I want
to go to bed, but if I do I should shower first because I stink, and that seems like a mountain too high to climb at the moment, so instead I sit and
wait for the shower to come to me.
Hannah starts picking at the acne along her jawline, staring off into the distance. She has acne on her back and chest as well. Its not horrible or
anything, its just there. If I had to put money on a cause Id say its some sort of reaction to the amount of dairy food she consumes. Hannah lives
on cheese and yoghurt. She says all Dutch love their dairy products. Or it might be from too much caffeine: she drinks a lot of tea. Milky tea.
You know, she says, Joost left a message on my answering machine tonight. It was there when I got home from work.
Is everything all right?
Not really. Hes upset. He wanted to know if I was seeing other people over here. He said that he was very unhappy. He said a lot of things, you
know, making me feel very guilty.
Did you ring him back?
No. I think I have to be strong.
Do you know what you want to do? I mean, with Joost?
No. Sometimes I think I want a divorce, I want to live my own life. And sometimes I feel very lonely. My colleagues at work, they say such
horrible things. They are so threatened by me, I think. And living in another country can be hard. Although its good that you are downstairs from
me. That I have a Cookie around.
She smiles and I wonder what benefit I could possibly be to anybody.
Dont worry about Joost.
But he hates me.
I think men always hate women, underneath it all.
But no
No, I think they do. Really. Maybe were just as scary to them as they are to us.
Hannah looks truly puzzled. But are you scared of men, Cookie?
I shake my head quickly, but my throat feels tight. No, I was just Its just something I think sometimes, thats all.

9
Surf porn
Coastalwatch
Swell size 0.5 metre Swell direction NE
Pristine conditions today. No wind, the sand banks are good and its a peaky 12ft. If there was some decent swell around itd be on. Small but highly surfable at exposed swell
locations

The back car park is empty and the lagoons settled into a syrupy torpor. While Im getting changed I can hear fish jumping, slapping the teastained water. God, its hot. I run over the dune, sand burning the soles of my feet, looking down at my knees. My skins the colour of a roasted nut.
Ive changed so much since Ive been here. Now, when I catch sight of myself in the mirrored doors of my bedroom wardrobe, Im startled by the
stranger looking back at me. Hair dried out by the sun, skin stained brown by it. Triceps that are hard knobs of muscle. If I hold out my arms, my
lat muscles make my chest widen like a fan. Im becoming someone else, and I like it.
The beach is empty save for a man and a woman walking towards the headland and the clump of surfers at the Alley. A lifesaver is setting up
for the day, driving a four-wheeler down to mark out the flags.
There are patches of lighter blue pooled on the oceans surface like oil slicks. And theres swell. Easy, two-foot waves peel left and right with
clean precision. The swell is a bonus, really, because I thought the high pressure system would settle on the ocean like a blanket. Whats more,
there arent too many bodies out there. Maybe everybody else slept in.
Conditions are so clean that duck diving is like slicing butter with a hot knife. The crows are all out and theyre exclaiming about it: Aw, W.D.,
mate, good to see ya! Its a faarken reunion, eh?
Theres a new guy too, a fresh-faced twenty-something on a purple malibu. Hes hassling people like mad and Im thinking he should be careful
doing that. Doesnt he know about this place? Didnt he notice the broken board thats been jammed onto the pole near the lifesavers building as a
warning? Someones spray-painted No Mal Zone on one of the signs in the top car park. When I first saw that I thought it was good. U sually mals
are ridden by beginners who bob around getting in your way and dropping in because they dont know better. Or worse, by people who can surf
and should know better but are using them to hog a break. A couple of the crows ride mals, but they surf here regularly and dont hog waves, and
they ride them old-school style, trying for some art in what theyre doing. Also, they look like theyd punch the crap out of anyone who had a go at
them.
This guy can surf, but hes really pushy. He snakes me almost immediately, which pisses me off. One of the crows, a shortboarder with long
sideburns and a penchant for lurid board shorts, turns around and hollers at him: Faark off, mate! Show her a bit of faarkin respect.
Surprised, I look at him, and he gives me a nod.
The newbie must be stupid though, because he paddles straight back to the inside, which is just plain rude. This time the crow drops in on him
and does a cutback so hes heading straight towards him, screaming, Faark off! Git gone, mate.
I get my first wave. Oh God, its great today. The waves have got a real thrumming beat to them, a speed about the way they peel that gets your
blood pumping. I zing along, smacking out a hat-trick of top turns and finishing with something I hope resembles a foam floater. Guys paddling
back out give me an Eeeeeurgh! Sometimes with surfing its just on and you lift up a level.
More men arrive, none of them regulars. Although small, its good here today, and the south facing breaks will be flat. The crows take umbrage.
All I can hear is a cacophony of Faark offs.
Someone paddles up beside me and I turn around to find its that Danny kid, the one who sees colours. He stares at me for a second, as if
checking something, then seems to relax.
Hey, Danny, I say with a big smile which surprises even me.
Have you seen that Blue Horizon movie?
Ah no. I wait for an explanation but there is none. Im good, thanks. Howve you been?
Yeah, good. My mum gave it to me. For my birthday. Its about Andy Irons and Dave Rastovich Rasta you know that free surfer?
Happy birthday. When was it?
Today.
How old are you?
Guess.
Forty-two.
A smile twists his mouth sideways. No, Im fifteen.
Youre just a baby.
No, Im not. He flips himself over and lies on his back. How old are you?
Twelve.
He grins, showing his even white teeth. Im struck by how clean he looks: thick black hair, smooth skin, slanted eyes. Today his eyes look hazel.
How old are you really? he asks.
Nineteen.
Huh. He considers that for a while, his mouth open. Thats old. Thats four years older than me.
All right, all right.
Thats like half a decade older than me. A third of my life.
I splash water at him. Why arent you at school?
Because its my birthday. Mum said I could have the day off because were not doing anything anyway. We finish up next week. Christmas
holidays. Whats your last name?

Lee.
What was school like back in the day, Mrs Lee? Then he collapses into giggles, going floppy the way little kids do when they laugh too much.
When he finishes, he gives a big sigh and sits up. You know how its my birthday? You can give me a present if you want.
Geez, youre not short on confidence are you? What can I give you?
You know how you said you work in a kitchen? Do you reckon you could get me a job there?
What, like part-time?
Yeah. I want a job for the holidays.
Is this part of your condition you know, the colours thing you ask total strangers for jobs?
Its called synaesthesia. Synaesthesia. And its not a condition, like a disease or something, its a good thing. Some people call it a gift. He says
all this with his face stuck up in the air, looking serious and snooty. And youre not a stranger, Ive talked to you.
Youve talked to me once.
Youre not a stranger because I get stuff from you. So I knew you even before I talked to you. Thats rare, by the way to get colours from
people. Really rare. Not many people have that type of synaesthesia.
Oh really? And what do I give off?
He starts to fiddle with the pocket on his board shorts.
Is it the good stuff, the honey stuff?
No. He turns and paddles for the next wave.
When he comes back, he sits up on his board and his hands start pecking at each other. What about the job?
I feel bad for teasing him. I dont know, Danny. Its not very nice work. Ill talk to my boss, see what I can do. He might want to talk to your
mum.
Im not a baby.
I know. I gasp, widening my eyes. Youre fifteen.
He grins. Shut up. Whats the place called, where you work?
Caf Parisienne. Its in Manly, but I spose you could get a bus there if you had to.
Cant I get a lift with you?
Well, yeah but it depends if were on the same shift. Im feeling slightly panicked by just how quickly Danny has attached himself to my life.
What time do shifts end at night?
I shrug. Twelve, usually.
Well, then Ill have to get a lift with you. I cant get the bus.
Is that right, Princess?
No, its not like that. Mum doesnt like me coming home by myself late at night. And I dont want her picking me up. Thatd be distressing.
Distressing? Thats a big word for a fifteen year old.
You know, majorly embarrassing.
I nod. All right then, because its so distressing, when I talk to my boss Ill say you need the same shifts as me. Happy?
Yeah, good.
Theres a right breaking further over and I paddle for it. It shuts down quicker than my last wave but I still get two turns in. When I rejoin Danny
he appears to be deep in thought, hands worrying away at each other.
This movie, Blue Horizon, he says.
What about it?
Its like Rasta porn.
What do you mean?
Every time they show Rasta, theyve got him in slow-mo. Like, him swimming underwater with mermaids and shit. Making a lot out of the fact
hes a free surfer. Its stupid. And then when they show Andy Irons they make him out to be a money-hungry pig. But Rastas sponsored, too.
I nod, surprised by his astuteness. Fair enough.
Whats your favourite surf movie? he asks.
I give it some thought. I dont know. Probably old stuff, videos I used to watch when I first started. Endless Summer Two
Seen it. Sucks. Too much story and not enough surfing.
and Kelly Slater in Black and White.
He looks more interested. Can I borrow it?
Oh. The tapes wrecked, sorry. I kept rewinding and watching the same part over and over and it broke.
Danny laughs. That is like porn.
Youre fifteen, how much do you know about porn?
He shrugs. Not much. Hey, whats the time?
I glance at my watch. Ten thirty.
Ive got to go. Ill drop some Rasta porn off for you.
What?
Hes flattened out, paddling hard to catch the next line of swell coming through. Blue Horizon. Ill drop it off at your place. See ya.
Drop it off at my place? How the hell does he know where my place is?

10
bitter stings
On Friday I wake up with a nagging feeling that Im supposed to be somewhere. Theres a strong wind blowing something around on the side of
the house and it keeps making a knocking noise. At first I think its someone knocking on my door, which would really freak me out, and even
after I realise its just the wind I still feel hounded. By eight oclock I cant stand my hallucinations any more and I give up and stagger out of bed
feeling like Ive been hit by a truck. The muscles in my back and legs have seized up from surfing and work, and if I turn my head a blue line of
pain shoots down the back of my neck.
I hate the wind. It makes everything depressing. I remember my mother going on once about a woman who took to her bed for six months. One
of the mothers from school whose husband had left her. I mean she only gets out to drop the kids off and pick them up again. Doesnt even bother
to change out of her nightie! I can see how things could get that bad. Sometimes its all you can do to get up in the morning. Sometimes staying in
bed isnt as scary as getting out of it. If I didnt have surfing to get me out of bed I dont know what Id do.
I sit down at my laptop, which is set up amongst the clutter covering the square breakfast table in the living area, and I pull up the surf report,
but before I get around to reading it Im up out of my seat again, looking for my mobile. Mum rang last night when I was at work. I noticed the
missed call when I got back to my car but I didnt listen to her message. I was in a good mood and I didnt want to wreck it. Instead I drove home
with the radio blaring and the windows rolled down.
But this morning has changed all that. Its a morning without hope. The sky is bleak and grey and the wind just wont let up. A never-ending
grind of traffic passes outside, people who have somewhere to go and somewhere to return to. I find my mobile on the kitchen bench, dial up my
message service and then press the phone hard to my ear as though my mothers voice will be the last voice I hear on earth. Something hard and
painful has lodged in my throat. I feel so alone. I want to go home. Anything is better than this.
Hello Carla. Its your mother here

And her tone is set, pressed and firm. Freshly ironed. This is a duty call. Because, after all, I am her daughter. Even if Im not the one she would
have chosen for herself.
Your brothers unit settles next weekend. Hes thinking of getting a flatmate because hell be away for work so much and itll help with the mortgage

She gives me the family run-down, and then moves on to household maintenance.
which was very disappointing. So your father told them we werent prepared to pay for it unless they fixed it up. The whole thing was disgusting. I dont know how people like that
stay in business

And then she gets to the thing thats been scratching her, the reason for her call, even if she doesnt know it herself. I know it because her voice
changes, discontent bittering up her mouth.
And what else? Maddie leaves for Fiji next week. Auntie Yvonne says shes been saving up for it all year you know how she had that part-time job at the newsagents? Good to see
that. As your father said, she had a goal and shes seen it through to the end. Of course Yvonne and Robert will help her out a bit, but still, Maddies always had her head screwed on
right. Shes going with a couple of her friends. Sarah is one of them remember her from Maddies eighteenth? Lovely girl. They wanted to do something special to mark the end of
their high school years. Something nice.

The disapproval in her tone isnt for my cousin, Madeleine. Its for me. Because I didnt want to do anything special or nice to mark the end of
my high school years. I wanted to go to the Gold Coast and get drunk like everybody else. This shouldnt have been wrong, but for some reason my
father decided it was.
I knew he would. Thats why I left it until the last minute to tell them I was going. And then he and I argued, and in the few days before I went
he wouldnt look at me when he was speaking to me, if hed speak to me at all. I was eighteen, I could do what I wanted, but it came at a price.
My fathers eyes can be the coldest place on earth.
For him, it was all about control. It was something I wanted too much. It would be good for me not to get it. But when I overheard Mum
discussing me on the phone, speaking from her position on the cross, I wanted to ask her for clarification. I didnt do drugs; I got good grades at
school; my teachers liked me; I had friends, guys and girls, a group of mates to hang around with, even if I didnt have a cloying, specially close
best friend in the way of Maddie and Sarah; I wasnt a bad person so why, why, did she always proceed my name with a sharply exhaled breath?
Couldnt she see that if I always did what he wanted there wouldnt be any of me left?
Heres the sting: if, by some strange act of God, I had been unnaturally mature and pre-empted Maddie by marking the end of my high school
years with a sedate Fijian holiday in a resort empty of anybody still young enough to want to party, it wouldnt have made Mum happy. It would
have been wrong, too.
And thats because, in the restaurant of life, my mother always wants what someone else is having. Auntie Yvonne is proud of Maddie. She just
loves her. Shed be excited whether Maddie was going to Fiji or the Gold Coast or wherever.
Mum doesnt feel that about me. So I must be the problem.
I delete her message without listening to the rest of it.

11
Collision
Coastalwatch
Swell size 11.5 metres Swell direction S
The strength of yesterdays southerly change has made for erratic climate-changestyle extremes today. Its more like winter than summer. Some solid 34ft waves around this morning,
pushing up to 45ft during the day. Strong SW winds forecast to turn SE

By the time I get down to the back car park dirty grey clouds are scudding across the sky. Its close to low tide and the break isnt liking the
southerly swell, really sucking up on the right bank, showing a dirty underbelly of grey water pockmarked by sand. The waters surface looks scaly
in the wind.
I walk down to the break with one of the crows who was in the car park getting changed when I arrived. Hes a nice old guy who likes to talk,
always as excited as a kid. One day he just started talking to me like hed known me his whole life. I didnt mind though. In fact, I liked it.
Bloody crowded, he says when we see the break. Ive got to get back up to Crescent Head.
Crescent Head would have to be crowded too, wouldnt it?
The point break is, but the beach breaks arent. You can have some good surfs there all to yourself. U ncrowded.
Ill have to check with Hannah whether uncrowded is a real word. In surfing it is. Crowds are a major concern. I saw a photograph of Manly on
one of the surf websites the other day. It showed a line of surfers, maybe four or five deep, stretching from Queenscliff down to the south end
without a break. It looked like hell. Maybe its good that this place has got such a bad reputation.
As though he can read my mind, the old crow says, Been a bit of aggro lately. Few broken boards. Bit of a biff in the car park the other day.
I wonder how it happens, the breaking of the board. Does the aggressor wait until the person has laid it down on the bitumen and is unlocking
their car, unaware? Or do they rip it out of the persons arms and break it across their knee?
I start unwinding my leg rope from around my board.
That little Shane bastard has got a lot to do with it, the old guy says, nodding his head at a surfer making his way across on a right.
I stare out at Shane and see the flash of colour on his forearms, which are covered in tatts. Just looking at him gives me a bad feeling.
Hes always stirring things up that one. Got a mouth on im, that kid.
Because the swell is from the south its breaking over at Carparks in line with the top car park and peeling right. Most of the guys are
clumped over there, constantly trying to make the inside. I stick to the Alley, paddling against the sweep to hold my position. Theres a bad feeling
about the place today and I dont want to be around the hassling. But that Shane guy comes for me anyway. He catches a wave in and paddles out
so hes right behind me, singing to himself these boots are made for walkin nah nah nah-nah nah nah gonna walk all over you. I glance
around at him and his eyes are glassy, not looking at me, but even so hes making some sort of point. A hand squeezes my stomach. Hes lean and
wiry, with cropped blond hair. The tattoos on his forearms are lurid swirls of red and green like decaying Christmas decorations. His face is sharp,
so beautiful it cuts, and theres something erotic and poisonous about him.
He stops just on my inside and stares back at the beach, raising his right arm in the air. There are two guys walking towards the Alley, boards
under their arms. One of them waves in return.
In a lull between sets, he turns his attention to me.
Excuse me, young lady. His tone, overly polite, starts my heart thudding.
Yep?
You wouldnt happen to have the time on you, would you?
I look at my watch. Its ten to nine.
Nine oclock?
Yeah.
Time for a fuck?
I act like I havent heard him, my face frozen.
He laughs and paddles across to a guy not far from us, saying, Did you hear that, mate? Its fuck time. Fuck oclock.
I feel sick. Whys he targeting me? Because Im the only female out in the water and he wants to make something of it?
The two guys Shane waved to are paddling past me now. With shock, I realise one of them is Ryan.
He gives me a hard stare and sucks air through his teeth. Gettin a few?
When I dont answer, he frowns as though hes going to say something else, but then one of the crows calls out, Hey, Rhino! Wet the bed, mate?
And he moves on, paddling over to talk to the crow, drifting belly down beside him on his board.
Shane has paddled through the main clump of guys and continued on so hes deep inside. I see him go on the first wave of the next set through.
The waves massive and hollow, with a slicing lip sharp enough to take your head off. Itll barrel, but theres no way hell make it out. He takes the
drop anyway and I see him driving his board forward into the pit before the shoulder of the wave blocks my view. He eventually surfaces in the
sea of white water that follows, washed all the way in near the beach. He gets out in front of the car park and starts walking towards the Alley rip.
Which means hell paddle out near me again.
In a panic, I take the next wave coming through. I dont look to see if anyones on it. Im thinking Ill ride it in and hang out in the whitewash
until Shanes passed, then go home. Leave. Give up.
Oi, oi, oi!
I look over to see a guy charging across from deep inside like a train. I pull off and he goes into a hard turn, spraying my face. This becomes
some sort of nightmare because then a massive set rolls through and Im right in the impact zone. I hesitate for a second then start paddling

some sort of nightmare because then a massive set rolls through and Im right in the impact zone. I hesitate for a second then start paddling
forward, really ripping the hell out of my shoulders to get clear. And then Ryan takes off, deep inside on a right, his backhand. I see him coming
and Im right in his path and my heads all screwed up because I panic and start paddling left, trying to beat him to the shoulder, which is
something you never, never do. He sees me now and his eyes widen in confusion, a split second of indecision. Should he try to bottom turn around
me, or cut across the wave face above me? He goes to bottom turn, late, off-balance, and thats when I realise hes going to hit me. I abandon my
board, sliding over the side, arms up to protect my head.
I hear the thunk of fibreglass hitting fibreglass, his body slams into me and the lip crashes down on the two of us. Then everythings a churning
mess as were dragged under by the suck. Grey-white turbulence swirls like a hallucination, my chest is tight and I fight the panic to breathe. Im
kicking, wriggling, clawing for the surface, and I keep bumping up against him, hitting him with my arms and legs. The drag doesnt let up and Im
really losing it, going crazy claustrophobic, thinking hes going to drown me.
I break through the surface and suck back air and hes there beside me saying, Easy, easy, easy
I gasp, still struggling, trying to find a foothold, pushing him away from me.
Sharper now. Take it easy, mate. Just hang on a second.
I go under again, thrash my way up, gulp water, start to cough.
Jesus, settle down, he barks.
He finally gets a foothold, leaning back from the pull of the sweep running down the beach, and Im wrapped around the back of him like a
piece of seaweed.
Bloody leg ropes are tangled.
Our boards are knocking against each other, tomb-stoning in the sweep. He pulls his board towards him, which drags mine with it. Ive managed
to stand by this time, reaching down to undo my leg rope which must be wrapped around his legs somehow.
You all right? he asks.
I was trying to get out of your road. I start coughing and water streams out of my nose.
He undoes the mess our boards are in and pushes mine across to me. Well, yours is screwed.
I see what he means. The front third of my board is snapped, the fibreglass hanging by threads, the stringer broken clean through.
Wonder what shape mine is in, he mutters, pulling his own board through the water towards him. He runs his hand up the side of the board,
his face grim. What a shit. New board, too.
I see his shattered left rail. For a moment I forget everything else because this is bad enough. Ive wrecked someone elses board, paddling in
front of them like a bloody idiot. The whole crew is probably watching, just shaking their heads. Stupid, stupid girl.
Oh shit, Im so sorry.
The reform sucks up behind us and thumps down on me so I lose my footing and go under again. When I surface hes climbed on his board and
is catching the next line of white water. He rides on his stomach to shore.
I follow him, feeling worse than awful. I want to be swallowed up by the sea, to disappear.
Hes on the beach, checking his board.
I hurry across the sand towards him, carrying my broken board. Look, Im really sorry.
Yeah, you keep saying that. Hes picking at the crack in his fibreglass. He turns the board over and halfway down I see the big crease running
across the width of it.
I dump my board on the sand. Ill pay for it to be fixed. I didnt mean
What did she do, mate? Shanes standing behind us, his board tucked under his arm. His eyes are too bright and theyre fixed on the ding. New
board and all. Aw, that sucks, mate. Thats the pits.
Oh God, let me rewind time. Take me backwards so I can never have come here.
He steps too close to me with those wide mad eyes and smiles. Youve fucked it. He says fucked so hard that spittle sprays my face.
Piss off, Shane. This has got nothing to do with you, Ryan mutters.
Shanes eyes dont blink.
Shane. Get lost, mate.
Shane looks from me to Ryan and then back to me again with a maniacs grin, then walks off.
Whoo-eee. Ha ha ha. Shes worked ya over, Rhino! he shouts without turning around.
Ryan squats down, staring at his board, his pale freckled forearms resting on his knees. Hes wearing a T-shirt instead of a rashie and it clings to
the solidness of his shoulders. Its strange to me that I can have knocked up against his body like that when I dont even know him.
For some reason I think of a Sunday afternoon when I stayed out in the surf after sunset, the headland becoming a dark silhouette against a
purple sky, the water turning grey. The floodlights at the tidal baths looked like showers spilling gold onto the sand and I was humbled with
wonder at so much beauty. But it was all a trick. Because now Im going to be cast out, exiled.
Im just waiting for him to tell me to go.
Ryan looks up at me, sucking air through the small gap in his front two teeth. With his freckles, his lank wet hair, the way his ears stick out a bit,
you can see the boy he once was, except for his eyes which are grey and tell you nothing.
So. He pauses. So, eh?
And thats when I bend down and pick my board up, hands all shaky-shaky, and hurry off.
Hey! His voice is surprised.
I start to run, slip-sliding steps that dont seem to move me forward in the soft sand. My legs are burning by the time I reach the top of the dune.
The bitumen in the car park hurts my feet. I cant stop sniffing. When I bend over to get the car key out of my leg rope, water gushes out of my
nose and I dont worry about wiping it off, letting it stream over my chin in too much of a hurry to get the hell away.
I open the Lasers boot and throw my board in any old how. His board might have been creased but mines snapped clean in two.
I hate him. I hate all of them. I hate this place.
I grab my towel out of the back of the car and give my face a vicious wiping over, then blow my nose on it.
Too late I spot him at the bottom of the dune, walking into the car park, seeing me there and heading my way. I didnt expect him to follow me.
I put the towel down and wait for him to reach me, dead-faced.
You all right?

I shrug and I cant keep looking at his grey eyes because I feel like they can see all the way into me and I dont like it.
Dont worry about Shane. Hes full of it. Hes an arsehole to women and an arsehole to men. Thats just him.
Ill give you money to get your board fixed, I say, my voice thin and glassy.
Nah, dont worry about it. Shit happens, mate. Thats what surfing is half the time shit happening. I know a shaper who owes me a few
favours. Hell fix it for free. He can do your board while hes going.
I shake my head, feeling like Im at high altitude, cant get enough air.
Its no biggie, mate. He leans in and pulls my board out of the back of the car, the snapped topped section dragging as he does it. He unfastens
the leg rope and drops it in my wet tub. Keep that so you can use it in the meantime. Ill drop this off when I take mine.
He turns my board over and runs his fingers down its belly. Custom-made, eh?
For Carly 6 1". 18. 2 is written in pencil along the stringer near the tail. When I ordered it I asked the shaper to write For C, not Carly,
because I was worried that if I ever went to sell it guys wouldnt buy a girls board. He must have forgotten.
Ryan looks up at me. It wont be the same once theyre broken they never handle the same way again but youll still get some use out of it.
You got a pen? He waits but I dont move. A pen, mate, he says again.
I try the front door handle but its locked.
Ryan pulls the boot down, takes the key out and hands it to me. Theres an old biro in the pocket in the drivers-side door. I pass it to him. He
sees my hand is shaking.
Whats your phone number? he asks. This guy Mark, his name is he shapes for Hard Cut in Dee Why. Hell ring you when hes done.
He scratches my mobile number onto the back of his hand. A bit of me on him. Then he hands me the pen back and looks at me for a second.
You okay?
This is unbearable. I will him to leave. Yep.
All right then. He gathers my broken board up and tucks it under his arm. Ill see ya later. He nods and walks off.
On the way home I try to cry because I think itll make me feel better, but I cant. When I pull up in the lane waiting to turn right at the Garden
Street traffic lights, I wind my window up and try screaming instead.
Faaaaaaarrrrk! Aaaargh! Faaaaaarrrrrkiiiing faaaaaarrrrk! Aaaaaaarrrrrgh!
A Toyota Landcruiser pulls up in the lane beside me, a woman pushes a pram past the Lasers bonnet, crossing the intersection on the walk
signal, and I scream so loudly my throat feels ripped and raw, safe in the privacy of my own vehicle.

12
Closer
Kylie and Georgina are out the back having a smoke when I arrive at work fifteen minutes early. Theyre sitting on upended milk crates near the
rubbish skip, in amongst the stink.
Hi, sweetie! Kylie chirps.
She shifts as though the milk crate is uncomfortable, taking a drag from her cigarette, and I notice how her hand is like a little claw. Seeing her is
like seeing a bad omen. I wish I could make her drink milk, watch her drink it and grow stronger.
How are you, sweetie? Georgina says.
I dont know why, but I squat down beside them, suddenly dying to talk to somebody, anybody, just to plug into the world of people somehow.
Really bad, hey. I went for a surf today and I hit this guys
Carlys going to take me surfing, Georgina says, putting her hand on Kylies thigh.
Is she?
Yes. Im going to use my new board. You know the one I told you about? With the frangipanis? Georgina looks at me. When can we go?
Well, I dont have a board at the moment. Thats what I was going to say. I wrecked this guys board and my board. It was so bad. I felt awful.
They watch me like a pair of owls as if waiting for the rest of the story. Kylie sucks back on her cigarette again and her cheeks hollow.
Georgina pokes Kylie in the side. Are you going to come and try it?
What, surfing? Kylie frowns. I dont know. I dont even like swimming.
I stare at Georgina. Can she really imagine Kylie wearing a swimsuit? Does she really think that Kylies in any state to paddle around and knock
herself up against fibreglass?
What time do you start? Georgina asks me. Her blue eyes are sparkly and shes all cute and perky with her short black hair, but shes not warm
at all.
I glance at my watch. Half past.
Still I stay put and silence falls over the three of us. I guess theyre waiting for me to leave, not used to me being social. But I want them to listen
to me. I want them to tell me itll be all right. Theres this big hole in me and tonight it seems to be gaping terribly.
Georgina stubs her cigarette out and sighs loudly. Well She stands up and stretches.
Were going for a coffee, Kylie says scratchily, her voice going up and down. Were going to check out that new place at the Wharf.
I dont know where she means but I nod as though I do.
Well say goodbye before we go. Georgina wants to get changed.
Okay, cool, see you then. I make my voice sound chirpy and bright, but on me that sort of voice is as false as a mask. Have fun.
I step around Georgina and go in through the back door.
Emilios in the office, working out the roster.
Carly. How are you? he asks without expression.
Okay.
I stand there stupidly, time passes, and eventually Emilio looks up at me, his face impatient.
I open my mouth, realise that Emilio wont want to hear about how bad I feel, and I tell him about Danny instead, how he wants a job, the only
catch being that he needs to work the same shift as me so I can give him a lift home.
Has he had any experience? Emilios voice is brusque.
No. Hes only fifteen.
Emilios eyebrows twitch slightly. I can see his brain computing the fact that fifteen year olds are cheap.
I thought you might need someone extra on the busy nights, you know, just for school holidays. Maybe Fridays and Saturdays. Bussing.
Emilio says hell think about it.

I notice the seven food orders banked up on the docket printer when Im standing near the pass tying on my apron. I get a fright when I see them
there could be people out the front with long grey beards. The first ones been there fifteen minutes, which means it came through before the end
of Kylies shift. For a moment I stand rock still with my arms straight by my sides. This place is relentless; it just keeps rolling on right over the top
of you, like a flat tyre, punctured but still turning, food scraps mashed in its tread.
Once, Kylie would never have left the kitchen before I arrived to take over. And she always used to finish any orders that came in towards the
end of her shift, it was a point of pride with her. It means you get a head start on the prep without having to worry about that stuff. No, I want to
do it. Now Kylie leaves things like everybody else does. I dont mind from the work perspective, Kylies worked hard enough for long enough. But
from a health perspective it worries me. Im taking it as a sign that Kylies slipping away. Shes coming undone.
I slam things around getting the food orders underway. There are buckets and buckets of unwashed stuff waiting to be put through the washer,
piled up precariously on the bench and on the floor.
I get to an order for Thai green chicken curry and a Caesar salad and I find that theres no Thai curry left in the cool room. For a minute I panic
and consider making it up from scratch, but thats insane thinking. I re-check the docket and see that the order came through twenty minutes ago
and theres no order number (when people order we give them a number to display on their table). Ive got a cold panic in my stomach. I walk out
the front and find Marty out there. Hes finishing a coffee order, staring over the heads of the waiting customers while his hands cup the stainless
steel jug under the steamer. Keeping my voice low, I ask him who ordered the Thai.
Carly Carl, he says, too loudly. Howre ya goin? Nah, thats them over there, eh.

He nods at a well-groomed couple who look like they havent talked to each other in years. They will give me a hard time, I know it. I hate
telling people that they cant have what they ordered. I hate it.
Im right. The woman clucks in annoyance and peers at me over the top of her glasses. I hear my voice stumbling when I ask her if shed like to
choose something in place of the curry, complimentary of course. I tell her Ill organise the refund immediately.
Emilio comes back out the front and works the register, taking orders. I ask him to refund the curry and he says, Why isnt there any made up?
I dont know.
Because that sort of prep can be done a couple of days in advance, cant it? Surely?
Its going to be a long night.
When I get back in the kitchen the printer runs out of docket paper and emits a high-pitched noise, just in case we hadnt noticed. I dont know
how to change the roll so I ask Emilio to do it. But hes snowed under with customers, so we initiate plan B: he writes orders by hand and sticks
them up at the pass, looking really pissed off.
An order comes through for eggs hollandaise. I check the date on the bottle of hollandaise sauce on the shelf. Its been there since Tuesday, two
days ago, the last time I made a batch. There isnt much of it left and I would have thought Stu or Kylie might have made a batch sometime today,
but apparently not. I bet its crammed full of bacteria, overflowing with 8s. Im going to have to use it because more orders are coming through.
Were getting slammed. There are around twenty customers lined up out the front and theres only Marty, Emilio and I to deal with them.
Emilio appears at the window, passing through a muffin on a plate. Can you heat this up for me?
I take the plate. Wheres Roger?
Ive cut his hours. Hes doing a shorter shift. He wont be in until six.
What?
Michael wants me to prune some of the labour costs.
I tempt myself with the idea of just walking out, taking off my apron and cap, collecting my bag and walking into the back alley where the air
stinks of garbage but is a hell of a lot cooler; helping Michael prune labour costs that way.
Bye, sweetie. Kylie and Georgina swan through the kitchen. Kylies still in her work clothes, but Georginas wearing skinny jeans and a bright
yellow singlet. She takes in the chaos of plates and cups around the washer with a disdainful look on her face as though its a messy fact
completely unrelated to her world.
By the time I deliver the now complimentary order of pasta and a Caesar salad to the couple, theyve been waiting for forty-five minutes. The
woman tells me that its not good enough and they wont be coming here again. She has a quaver in her voice. I tell her that Im very sorry. She
looks me up and down as though Im an inefficient moron, which I suppose I am.
Im back inside and Rogers at work now, churning through the dishes. He doesnt say hello to me and I dont say hello to him. Emilios head
appears at the window.
Howre we going on the eggs hollandaise, Carly? His voice is funny.
Why?
Theyre for the team.
Oh shit. Why didnt you tell me?
But hes gone. I check the time on the docket. The orders been there for twenty minutes. There are two orders still ahead of it but the eggs
hollandaise will now jump the queue. Theyre for the team: men from the master franchisors office. Manly is a flagship operation for New South
Wales and they like to inspect it regularly, sometimes bringing potential franchisees with them to show the place off. I met one of them once, Max,
a broad-shouldered American with a hard handshake and a smile full of white teeth. He repeated my name like a threat, gripping it with his teeth,
and wiped his hand on his pants.
I plate up the eggs hollandaise and run it myself. I cant give it to Roger hes not quite in keeping with the slick Caf Parisienne staff member
outlined in the franchise manual. The eggs have taken too long. It will not matter to these guys that we are rushed off our feet. The aim of the Caf
Parisienne operation is to provide consistent service.
There are five of them at the table, all wearing suits. They stop talking when I arrive.
Eggs hollandaise? I say in a bright voice with a plastic smile. Surely they must see the desperation in my eyes?
A short balding man raises his hand. I slide the eggs in front of him and he gives an appreciative mumble. I can feel sweat squishing under my
arms as I hurry back to the kitchen. What if he gets sick from that hollandaise sauce? What if Ive just committed the first act of franchise murder?
Im convinced hell be vomiting within an hour. Im going to be in so much trouble. It occurs to me that I should be glad they didnt order the
Thai. Im so stressed my teeth are grinding into each other and Ive got pains in my stomach because I need to pee really badly but there just isnt
time.
What sort of life is this, one where you cant pee when you want to?

Roger shovels what Im sure is the remainder of the eggs hollandaise into his mouth about forty minutes later. I watch him do it, standing at the
end of the pass, gripping onto the stainless steel shelving as though I have sea legs and I cant trust myself to move. The slamming has stopped,
there are no customers waiting out front. Ive just run the last food order myself. The kitchen looks like its been hit by a bomb.
Marty barrels into the kitchen, pulling his cap off Emilio probably made him put it on when he saw the franchise inspectors arrive. He stops in
front of me, standing too close so that my neck is cricked back and I can see how dilated his pupils are. Hes giving off a stale, flat smell. I wonder
again if hes on drugs. Theres something rushed and discordant about him.
I got kicked out of my place, eh, he says. He stares down at me with eyes that are too bright. Arseholes.
What are you going to do?
Dunno, eh.
Im waiting for him to ask if he can crash at my place. Even though I dont want him to, Ill say yes, because it seems to me that people always
want something from you and I cant work out how to hold the door shut against that any more.
But he doesnt. A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. What are you doin tonight, Carls?
What? Why?
Nah, are you going for a drink? His voice is too loud.

No. I cant. Holding a hand to my head, I scurry past him and around the corner to the cool room. I pull back on the door and walk inside,
pushing through a curtain of cold air. Its loud in there, the fan on top of the freezer door whirring away. I stare at the shelves blankly. I feel like
Im unravelling along the seams.
The door to the cool room opens with a slapping sound. Marty comes in, staring at me like Im something he wants. I make a noise and back up
slightly and he closes his hands around my shoulders. But then he blinks and his face changes. He looks so tired, blanked out, that I forget about
whats going on for a second and instead wonder what happened to Marty to make him like this.
The door opens. Marty? Emilios voice.
Marty drops his hands.
Marty, for shits sake, I need you out the front, mate.
As Marty pushes past him, Emilio stares at me. My arms hang loosely by my sides as though theyve stopped working.
Nothing was happening, I say.
He doesnt answer, just closes the door.

I drive home the Pittwater Road way. My eyes have gone funny and everythings smudged. Streetlights, traffic lights and the lights of the oncoming
cars have a haloed effect. The worlds a blur and it makes it hard to see the white lines, to know where I should be placed.

13
die and lay down
Hannah arrives home half an hour after I do. Ive had three cigarettes and when I hear her car pull into the carport I quickly hide the jar I keep my
butts in.
Cookie? Cookie? She appears as a dark shadow around the corner of the house. But youre out here in the dark?
I stretch my neck out. Youre home late.
Ive been at a work dinner. We went to Crows Nest.
Shes in a suit but she sits down anyway, not seeming to worry that the decking will snag her stockings.
These guys at work phew! They are so rude to me, you know? I asked Gavin hes the one I am supposed to be working with, we are
supposed to be a team I asked him a question about the project deadlines and he said to me, Dont worry about it, mate. Youll be long gone
before that becomes a problem. And I said, Well, mate, I am making it a problem now. Ah! Theyre just so rude, you know? Then tonight they
all drink together and nobody listens to me.
That sucks.
Hannah sniffs and wipes at her face. But it is not easy, you know, living in another country.
Shit, Hannah, dont cry well cry if you want. It must be really hard.
I always thought Australians were friendly They are so competitive.
Yeah, they are. We are.
She sniffs. Then she sniffs again. Hey, Cookie, but I can smell cigarette smoke. Have you been smoking?
No. I get up. You want a beer?
No. Oh, yes, all right.
I go inside to my bathroom, rub some toothpaste on my gums and rinse out, then get two beers from the fridge in the kitchen, twisting their tops
off and dropping them in the bin. Back outside I hand one to her and lie down on my stomach, placing my beer in front of my face.
Australians are competitive, I say. You know what I heard on the radio the other day? On the news they said, A recent study found Australia is
not the number one country in the world in terms of shark attacks. America was found to have the highest incidence of attacks. The newsreader
was really disappointed, sort of outraged. Like, come on Australian sharks, get going, start snapping.
Australian sharks are probably just very inefficient. They are probably spending their time drinking beer and talking about sport.
For some reason that makes me laugh. After a bit, Hannah does too. Laughing helps.
You want to know what happened to me today? I ask. I snapped my board and I wrecked another guys board.
Were you hurt? Are you okay?
Thats lovely somehow, the fact that shes worried about whether I was hurt. I tell her about it and she really listens, and I feel bad for all the
times Ive been impatient with her.
The worst thing is, I probably shouldnt go back there, I conclude. Which is shitty because I love that break. Ive improved so much surfing
there. But yeah, not after today.
But Cookie, you cant just die and lay down.
What? What did you say?
Die and lay down is that not the expression? Ive used it before.
No, its No, its great. Thanks Hannah. Here. I hold up my beer. Lets make a toast.
We clink, I open my mouth and pause, not sure what to say.
Hannah says, Maybe something like like I know! Her teeth flash in the dark. Like, go vaginas!
Okay, I say slowly, thinking that I just dont get Dutch humour sometimes. Go vaginas.
Go vaginas.
Go vaginas.
Go vaginas! she shouts, and we both laugh. She sips her beer, kicking up her little finger like shes drinking tea. Yes. Now, while I remember, I
did something today also. I rang the Salsa Lounge and I asked them if I could purchase entry tickets for tomorrow night.
For us?
Yes.
Dont you just buy them on the door when you get there?
Yes, but this way you have to come with me.
Youre kidding? You bought tickets to make sure I go?
Yes.
Whew. Well. Dont you think thats coercion?
Yes. Her chin juts out. So when you finish work youll come home and then we will go. Ill drive us there.
Arent you supposed to see this Victor guy? Wont you want to have a few drinks? Shouldnt I drive?
No. No, I dont want to have any alcohol. Especially if we might Hannah raises her eyebrows and sips more beer.
And that right there is how different we are. Shes about to get sex and she exercises control. If that were me, Id have to be drunk out of my
head.

14
not yet
Marty comes up behind me while Im mixing a batch of muffins. I dont hear his approach over the noise Rogers making at the sink hes had his
normal hours reinstated, Emilio must have realised his earlier decision to cut them back was madness. Anyway, when I feel hands close over my
shoulders and start kneading I think they belong to Golden-Staph Adam and Im about to snarl. But then I catch a glimpse of Martys blond-brown
curls and whoosh my face burns so red I look forwards again in a hurry.
What do you want, Marty?
To massage you, eh?
Found a new place?
The bell dings and Emilios round worried face appears in the window. Carly? Come on, Marty, mate.
He bustles off and Marty leans forward so hes pressed up against the length of me.
You think hes jealous? he whispers.
The laugh is squeezed out of me. Yeah. He thinks youre hot, Marty.
What are you doing tonight?
I can feel his breath on my ear and its giving me goose bumps. Why?
Im finishing early. Adam and Emilio are doing the close.
Oh, I say.
Im using a male spoon to mix the muffin ingredients together. Female spoons are slotted they have holes. Welcome to the international
language of kitchen brigades.
Im over-mixing the muffins to hell.
Nah, do you want to do something? Together? Marty stops his kneading and waits for me to answer him, his hands still on my shoulders.
I cant speak. Im overheating. If you cant take the heat, get out of the Why is the reality of attraction always so claustrophobic?
There comes an enormous crashing noise from behind us and Marty and I turn as one to look at Roger. Id forgotten he was there.
Hes dropped a pile of plates. He doesnt look at us, just angrily kicks the broken pieces of crockery under the sink. I feel like Im being judged.

Its a quiet night, which is odd because its school holidays and you would expect a Saturday night to be busy at the best of times. I tell Emilio Im
going to shut down the kitchen early and he nods. Even though Im doing myself out of wages pruning labour costs I couldnt care less.
Marty knocked off at ten. I didnt answer him about tonight and he didnt ask again.
Emilios in the office counting the register takings when I go in there to pick up my bag. Notes are stacked in neat piles in front of him and his
fingers flick two-dollar coins off the end of the desk into a plastic change bag.
Hey, so Im off, Emilio. Are you going to be okay?
Sure. You get out of here. Scrape, scrape. Well have to get you out the front soon. Get you making coffees.
I cant be bothered arguing. Yep.
He stops what hes doing and glances over at me. Everything okay, Carly?
Yeah, why?
Anything going on between you and Marty that I need to know about?
No. My voice is surprised and my eyes are too big. I try to squint a little. I feel like Emilios a teacher and hes disappointed in me. You know
what Martys like. Hes just mucking around.
He nods. You do a great job here, Carly. Its appreciated. I was thinking about having a talk to Michael, telling him you should be on salary. You
should know that.
I dont know what to say, so I dont say anything. Im happy because it would mean better money, but Im worried it might involve daytime
shifts. I pick up my bag.
Im just about out the door when he says, Carly? That friend of yours that wanted the job?
Danny?
He can start next Friday if hes still keen. Ive lined his shift up with yours.
Really? Thanks Emilio. Ill let him know.
For a second we stare at each other. I dont know much about Emilio except that he lives with his girlfriend, whos a physio, and hes making a
career of this, even though I dont know why. But hes a decent guy.
Thanks, I say again.
Have a good night.

It feels weird to be leaving early. Hannahs expecting me back home at 12.30 a.m. precisely, at which point I am to spend exactly fifteen minutes
having a shower and getting changed before she drives me to the salsa club. U nless, of course, I decide to stunt roll from the moving vehicle and
escape that way. Jesus Christ.
I could go home early the sooner she gets there, the sooner she and Victor can get down to getting it on but Im feeling sulky and coerced. I
go out the front, winding my way through the tables to the toilets. Once in there, I wipe my face over with a piece of wet soapy paper towel, pull

go out the front, winding my way through the tables to the toilets. Once in there, I wipe my face over with a piece of wet soapy paper towel, pull
my hair out of its ponytail and scrabble my fingers through it. Its texture is different these days from the salt water and sun, and its so dry it drinks
grease, which is a good thing. I rip my whites off and stuff them into my bag. Then I change out of my black T-shirt into the clean blue top Ive
brought with me, giving my chest a brief wipe over with more moist paper towel. Ever since the night Georgina, Marty and I went to The Steyne
for a drink Ive been carrying this spare shirt around in my bag just in case I ever went out again. Finally, I spray on more deodorant and wash my
hands.
Outside the air feels thick and heavy. The lights, the noise, the jostling crowd on the Corso combine to make me feel drunk. Faces blur. The
night is a mix of gold and shadows. I pause for a second and the crowd flows around me. Do I want to go the beach? No, Ill get in my car and
drive to Cook Terrace. Have a cigarette on the cliffs overlooking the ocean.
Carly!
Before I turn around I realise I knew this was going to happen. Thats why I got changed. No, thats not quite true. I never really thought hed
wait around for me to finish, I just liked the idea that he might.
Marty pushes through the crowd towards me, taking a drag from the cigarette hes holding in the crook of his fingers. Hes still wearing his work
shirt, but hes rolled its sleeves up and unbuttoned it midway to his chest, showing the T-shirt hes wearing underneath. For some reason all that
cotton thrills me. I love the smell of cotton.
He blows smoke over my head like hes tough, then his face splits into a grin. He looks embarrassed. I grin back at him. The two of us stand
there in the middle of the Corso grinning like were deranged. Marty looks so beautiful. The sharpness of his shoulders leaves me pumped full of
air.
I laugh because I dont know what else to do.
He says, I was just waiting around. For you. You want to do something?
U m yeah. But I Im supposed to be going out with my neighbour. Were going to a salsa club.
A salsa club, eh?
A salsa club.
What are you going to do there?
I dont know. Salsa? I laugh again like a fool, swinging my bag around to the front. I dont even know how to salsa.
You got off early.
Yep. But not before Emilio warned me about you.
What? The bastard.
He stubs his cigarette out on the ground, then glances back up at me, and I feel my face flush. His green eyes are very bright, very intense. I
wonder if hes on something. Does it matter?
I take a deep breath. So.
So.
I fidget with the strap on my bag and open my mouth to say something what? but hes talking.
You want me to walk you to your car?
Okay.
We start moving through the crowd. Marty puts a hand on my shoulder, the one nearest to him, steering me towards Pittwater Road. He must
know where I park. Of course he knows where I park, everybody from work parks there. When we get to Pittwater Road he lets go of my shoulder
and slides his hands into his pockets and I feel like Ive done something wrong.
We stop at the intersection near the backpackers, where, as usual, there are people out the front, squealing and carrying on. I hit the pedestrian
button a couple of times.
Once will do it, he says.
Three times makes them change faster.
He raises his eyebrows. Is that right?
Its a fact.
You really want to go to this salsa club?
Not really. I just said I would. Ive been roped into it. Shes bought tickets.
I want to ask him to come with me. But that means him coming home with me now and waiting while I get ready before we drive there in
Hannahs car. And then well, Hannah will be with Victor, which means Ill be with Marty. And hell come home with us because thats what you
do. And the whole night will be like a funnel leading to one inevitable conclusion.
Ive seen the girls Marty flirts with, the ones who work in the surf shops on the Corso. They sneak sly glances at him while theyre waiting in line
to order their coffees. They are tall and slim with long blond hair and faces that are bored and knowing. Im not like them. But even so, when
Marty first looked at me, way back before the serious flirting started, there was a spark in his eyes. Ive got something that has his interest, even if I
dont know what it is.
On Kangaroo Lane the traffic noises die away and our footsteps sound loud on the bitumen. Marty takes a hand out of his pocket and gently
massages the back of my neck. It feels like a clich and it makes me want to giggle and duck away, but I dont. Im trying to breathe quietly.
Ive parked under one of the few streetlights. I can see my yellow Laser in the distance, the deadline for a decision.
Hey, where are you parked? I ask, suddenly realising I cant see Martys Kingswood.
Nah, I didnt drive today. My brother dropped me off. Im staying at his place.
Oh.
I start biting my cuticles.
You nervous?
I glance sideways, bumping against him, and find him watching me. I drop my hand. No.
How about a lift to Harbord? To my brothers?
Okay.

We get to Harbord and he directs me through the flat streets down near the beach. Hes slouched down in his seat and looks like a stranger. Are his
pupils dilated more than they should be?
Are you on something, Marty?
He enunciates his words carefully. No more than usual. Here, its just here.
I pull over and leave the engine running. That way if he just gets out and slams the door closed behind him its no big deal. But he doesnt. He
runs his teeth over his bottom lip, studying me.
You know I like you, eh? he says.
I take a breath, cant speak.
Come in with me, Carly.
What about your brother?
What about him?
Id feel a bit funny.
He flicks his head, suddenly insistent. What about the beach then? We dont have to do anything, just talk.
Yeah right. But Im flattered. Im so flattered. I like his persistence because I need to be pushed. I want it, but I dont, and Im sick of that.
He puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes it. Please?
I hesitate, then turn the car around and drive down to the parking lot at the beach. There are quite a few cars there but they probably belong to
the customers and staff at Pilu restaurant, which overlooks the beach. While Im locking the car I hear the crash of the surf, smell the salt tang, and I
suddenly feel sure. The beach is good, the beach is my place. When I catch up to Marty he smiles at me, and I push my way under one of his arms
so that he squeezes my shoulders and we jostle together as we walk. We hit the soft sand and he waits, swaying, while I pull my boots and socks
off.
Hes wrecked on something and I need to be. Arms around each other, we help one another down to the beach.
Down near the water, out of the lights, the sand still feels warm. All the longing in me is arcing out to him, but Im afraid to stop walking
because Im not sure what comes next.
In the end he stops. And then he pulls me around to face him and starts kissing me. Really hard. His tongue rams into my mouth and he tastes
like a cigarette. And Im just relieved that the waiting is over. My body goes weak like its been punctured.
His hands move all over me in a physical onslaught, squeezing my bum, rubbing my back, pushing my breasts upwards. Our teeth clack together.
Then hes down on his knees in front of me, pulling me down and pushing me back on the sand. With one movement hes on top of me, grinding
into me even though were still fully clothed, and I arch up, even though theres something mechanical about it all.
Breathing heavily, he reaches for the waistband of my black pants. I catch his hand and pull it up. Not yet, not yet.
He slumps forward, pinning me with his weight, tugging roughly at my pants with both hands. And thats when I start to panic, feeling
claustrophobic. I try to push him off me and I cant. I push against his chest, raising him up slightly. His face is in shadow and for a second I
wonder who he is. He tries to kiss me again and when I shove him he grunts.
I struggle with him silently until he gradually winds down, like a clockwork toy. He stops doing anything, just lies still, a dead weight slumped
on me. I squirm out from under him and I sit up, pulling my knees up to my chest.
He pushes himself up on one elbow and looks around. Not gonna happen, eh? His voice is flat.
Marty. I want him to look at me. If he would just look at me and really see me, that would be a kindness. Things in me are still arcing out,
wanting to connect. But right now I dont know who he is, or what hes thinking, or if hes thinking anything at all.
Hes blank.
After a while he gets to his feet and trudges off, mumbling, Ill see you later, eh?
I dont say anything. I dont make a sound.

I take the long route home, following the curving coast road around the point to Curl Curl then over the hill to Dee Why, past the parade of
restaurants and cafs. I want to drive all the way up to Palm Beach, stopping only when I run out of road at Barrenjoey Headland, the end of the
peninsula. But Hannahs waiting for me.
I should have let him do it. When he finished he would have left me on the sand like a piece of litter, the slime from him running down my legs.
And that must have been what I wanted or else why was I there? I relive it all, whipping myself with it. Whats wrong with you?
I turn off Pittwater Road into Rickard Road where the houses are small and made of fibro. Theres a slight hill and a curve then a long straight
stretch with cars parked bumper to bumper either side. The remaining bitumen is so narrow you breathe in to pass anything coming the other way.
I floor it. Three cars pass me and I dont slow down, blinded by the glare of their headlights, feeling my way through rather than seeing anything.
Its like somethings pulling the car, making it go faster and faster.
At the end theres a sharp turn where the road climbs steeply and I lose it on the corner. The Laser swings wide into a glare of headlights. I
brake with my eyes closed, hearing a horn blast. When I open my eyes again, Im alone on the road, red brake lights in my rear-view mirror. By
some miracle they swerved in time.

15
Salsa
Im sorry Im late but work was really busy. My voice is terse.
Hannah doesnt seem bothered. Theres Latin American music blaring out on her stereo and she stands in her doorway doing some sort of dance
step. Salsa, I guess.
Dont worry about it, Cookie, mate! We are gonna party tonight. Have a shower, get changed.
Shes wearing her black dress, the one that buttons up the front and only barely covers her backside. No glasses. Her hair looks good, feathery.
I go down the side steps, carrying my bag. I put my black shirt back on in the car, otherwise Hannah would have asked me why I got changed.
She notices everything except the big things.
I shower quickly and get dressed: jeans, a black top and gold hoop earrings. Its the standard uniform I have for going out. I leave my hair to drip
dry and put on some mascara and lip gloss. Nothing else. My skins too brown for my old foundation now and Ive never been big on make-up. I
tuck money, ID, a lighter and some cigarettes into the pocket of the white denim jacket I use instead of a handbag, then I head up to Hannah.
Marty seems like a long time ago. I dont feel anything.

The salsa club is hell, but with cold beer. The beer is unbelievably cold as a matter of fact, kept in tubs full of ice and water. I buy two San Miguels
and sit on a stool at a bar-table watching Victor and Hannah and the other dancers. Guys keep trying to cut in on Victor. Its incredible really, how
many guys want to dance with Hannah. I dont know if its the dress or because she looks excited and sparkly. She really gets into the dancing, even
if shes a little bit stiff. Victor doesnt let anybody near her. He just wraps her up in his arms whenever someone taps him on the shoulder. He
looks really seventies, reminds me of the lead singer from Hot Chocolate. Although maybe he doesnt look anything like him and its just that hes
black and shaves his head.
Hannah saw him as soon as we arrived and dragged me over to meet him. She was so excited, and I was afraid for her. There was something at
the back of his eyes that I didnt like. Im Hannahs neighbour, her only decent friend in this country; he should have looked carefully blank when
he asked me: So are we going to see you back here then, Carly? Going to get you out dancing a little bit more? But he wasnt blank. The question
was loaded with an offer if I was interested.
The song, some frenetic Latin American mix, ends. Victor nibbles on Hannahs neck and she laughs. She glances over at me and pulls away from
him. He drops his arms, doing the big dejected act. But as shes walking my way hes watching me not her. Its predatory and I hate it. I focus on
Hannah.
Hey, Cookie, mate!
I smile at her, handing her the other beer.
No, no, Im driving. Oh to hell with it, just a little bit then. She takes a sip of beer, holding the bottle neck between her thumb and forefinger.
But youre not dancing?
No, Im on the bench tonight.
But you have to dance!
She pulls me off the stool and onto the floor. The song playing is some sort of favourite because everybodys up for this one: Yeah, baby! I like it
like that.
Jesus Christ. Hannahs holding my hands and doesnt stop clucking at me until I follow her lead and do a salsa three-step. She turns me under
her arm then turns me back the other way.
Yes, Cookie. Go vaginas!
And its all surreal to me. Im in a bubble. Inside my bubble the musics too soft, the beer tastes stale and my thoughts are too loud. Hannahs
movements seem pixilated. She doesnt realise Im cut off from the night. All I have to do is smile and nod.
Victor moves in behind Hannah and wraps his arms around her waist, tucking his face in against hers. She leans her head back against his
shoulder, watching me with happy eyes. Oh Hannah.
She straightens up and grabs at both of our hands, trying to pull us in towards each other. Victor, you dance with Carly. Go on, Carly, Victor will
show you the steps.
Well, I would rather drink bleach. But I dont say this to her, I shake my head and point vigorously in the direction of the toilets. Then I push my
way back to our table, pick up my jacket and escape outside.
The noise of the club is muted out there, replaced by the roar of city traffic. Theres a small crowd of people hanging around the bouncer,
talking. Theyre moving all the time, doing their steps, and I think thats cool. Salsa is to them what surfing is to me, I guess. I feel like Im a long
way from the northern beaches. I feel like Im out of my place.
I lean back against the side of the building and wonder how long were going to have to stay. I take out a cigarette and think about lighting it,
but it feels weird smoking in public.
Here you go.
I blink and focus on the guy holding a lighter out to me. Hes in his mid-thirties, wearing a black leather jacket.
Thanks. I take the lighter and look at it.
Yeah, watch out. Theyre a bit tricky.
No, I just dont know if I feel like a cigarette or not.
Itll kill you. And if youre pregnant it can harm your baby. Or it might even give you a disgusting gangrene mouth. I read my packets. Great
reads, cant put em down.
Hes got slicked-back hair, dark eyes and heavy brows, and a bit of a paunch. Dark chest hair curls up out of the round neck of his white T-shirt.

Im Jacob, he says. How about I smoke one with you?

Seeing as hes only interested in bumming a cigarette, not in me, I relax.
Sure. I give my unlit cigarette to him and fish another out of my pocket, light up and hand him the lighter.
Have you been in? He flicks his head in the direction of the club.
Yeah.
Havent seen you here before. Gettin into it?
It reminds me of the break. Gettin a few?
Not really. Im here with a friend. She comes all the time.
I probably know her then. Im here every week.
How come?
I like to dance.
Oh. What do you do? In the real world, I mean.
Im a builder.
Really? A salsa-loving builder?
He shows me his hands. His palms are calloused and cracked.
What do you do? he asks.
Instead of answering, I show him my hands. They are covered in burn marks and the scars of old cuts.
Youre a builder too?
I smile. No, Im a chef. Sort of.
All right then, Chef-Sort-Of you still havent told me your name, but it dont matter to me lets finish these and go have a dance.
I look down at the ground.
Now, dont be like that. Its hard enough for men these days without all that. Sometimes and I mean no offence by this because Im sure youre
a nice girl, and youre not bad-looking sometimes, we really do just want to talk to you, not jump your bones. And me? Hey, I dont even want to
talk. I just want to dance.
He leans against the wall, drags back on his cigarette and blows a plume of smoke up at the stars. My face is flaming.
Sorry, I tell him. Ive had a crap night. Im a bit uptight.
Dont worry about it, Chef-Sort-Of. Thats a good thing, thats what the world needs, uh-huh, more uptight people. Come on, come and dance.
He chucks his cigarette down onto the pavement, leaving it to burn, and waits until I stub mine out. We head back inside, him walking in front
of me. He nods at the bouncer.
Jacob dances with me like a male relative would: close, but not too close. His whole postures changed, making a frame for me with his body.
Hes a good dancer. He uses his hands to steer me. When I baulk at a move he tightens his grip until Im faced with the choice between completing
a turn or a broken wrist. Its very effective.
While he dances, he stares over my head, singing to himself, completely wrapped up in the music.
A slow song comes on and people pair up to move in a gentle shuffle. I dont feel comfortable pressed up against Jacobs paunch, but Im not
exactly panicked either.
So this is your thing? I shout near his ear.
I pull back to look at him and he raises his eyebrows to show he didnt catch what I said.
This is your thing? Like you work all week and then you dance?
Yeah. This is my thing. Get up at five, work til three, have a few beers. Watch the telly, scratch my balls, go to bed. Friday, Saturday, go
dancing. Salsa, merengue, cha cha cha.
How long do you think you can keep it up for?
He regards me, frowning. My necks cricked back to look at him and I keep stepping on his toes.
What do you mean, how long? he asks.
Like, how long will you keep doing it?
As long as I want.
But how long do you think that will be?
Hey, Chef-Sort-Of, if you sit around waiting to get older, itll happen. If youve got a thing, do your thing.
My gaze drops to his salt-and-pepper chest hairs.
Hannah and Victor dance up beside us. Hannahs gleaming at me. Victors watching her. Jacob steers me away from them, over to a less crowded
part of the floor where I wont stand on his feet so much. I think his continued patience in the face of my dancing ineptitude is admirable. Hes still
singing to himself, eyes closed, pretending, I think, that Im someone else.
I shout in his ear again. So you cant just lay down and die?
He doesnt open his eyes, but he nods. You cant just lay down and die.

Four-thirty in the morning. Hannah and Victor are going at it upstairs. Im down on my deck with the lights out, smoking. The sounds theyre
making are muted and I dont feel bad for being out here while theyre doing it. Im not interested in them; Im listening to the surf. Its thundering,
which means the swells picked up.
My mobile is on the deck beside me and I pick it up and dial the message-bank service again the third time in ten minutes. Id left it in the bag
I take to work and it was only after we got home from the salsa club that I saw I had a message.
He rang at 9.27 p.m.
Hey, uh, Carly I wanted to let you know Ive got a spare board for you if you need it. Mark gave me a couple of demos to use while hes fixing our boards. I dont know if you want
it, you might already have a spare, but if you do, give me a call.

He recites his mobile number even though he should know itll be on my call bank. Its Ryan, by the way the guy you ran into today. He
pauses. But yeah, youve probably figured that out.
Another pause. U nless, I dunno, maybe youve run into a few people lately. Anyway See ya, mate.

16
its not easy sometimes
I call him the next morning at nine-thirty. Then I think it could be too early, so I cut the call before he answers. I figure Ill wait until later, midday
or something.
Im sitting on the couch, biting my cuticles, tearing bits of skin off with my teeth and spitting them on the floor. My hairs all mussed up and I
reek of beer and cigarettes salsa club afterburn. Im thinking Ill clean myself up, walk down to the newsagency and buy Saturdays paper, see
what Bernards got to say, when my mobile rings. I check the screen and recognise his number. My heart starts thudding.
Hello, Carly speaking.
Hello, Carly-speaking. Ryan here. How are you, mate?
Good. How are you? I got your message.
Yeah, so whatd you reckon?
U m, Id like to borrow it a board if thats okay.
Yeah, no worries. What do you wanna do? Pick it up from my place? Or do you want me to drop it off?
When I dont answer, he says, Or, Ill tell you what Im going down now. Meet me there if you want.
You mean at the break? Its Saturday. Ive never seen him there on a weekend.
Yeah.
Okay. That sounds good. Ill be about fifteen minutes.

Hes parked in the back car park. The car spaces near him are taken so I park further up near the dune. Then I just sit there for a second, feeling
nervous.
Ive got my bikini on under a pair of denim cut-offs and a blue singlet top. Ive washed my face and dragged a comb through my hair, putting it
up in a ponytail, and sprayed on a lot of deodorant. But my eyes are bloodshot and Im feeling pretty queasy. I should have eaten something
aspirin on an empty stomach is never a good idea. The sun slaps me as soon as I get out of the car.
Hes standing at the back of his Commodore, rubbing sunscreen on his forearms.
Watch it, he says as I approach.
I look down and see the patch of broken glass Im barefooted. Thanks. Sorry Im a bit late. I went to the top car park first.
Thought you parked down here.
I thought you parked up there.
He nods, raising his sandy eyebrows, conceding the point. Then I realise I probably shouldnt have let him know that I know where he parks,
what car he drives.
He studies me, eyes screwed up against the sun. Had a big night, mate?
Yeah, sort of.
He rubs his hands off on a towel and throws it in the back of his car. Then hes all business. So, Ive got a six-two here for you. Its a round tail,
bit wider and thicker than your board. Should be all right, though.
He pulls the board out of his car and holds it up so I can see it, resting its tail on his foot. The nose isnt too far above the top of his head, which
means he must be around six-foot. He doesnt look that tall, maybe because hes solidly built.
He runs a hand down one of the rails. Bit more volume than yours. So you might find its easier in the small stuff.
Its a nice-looking board. Only a few dings. Theres a Hard Cut decal placed diagonally across the deck under the nose.
Are you sure this is okay? I ask.
Wouldnt be here if it wasnt.
Fair enough. I smile stupidly. Its like the first time I talked to him in the surf hes got me off balance. One minute hes calling me mate, the
next hes business-like, and then out of nowhere hes abrasive.
So you want it, or
Oh, sorry. I step forward and he hands me the board.
I tuck it under my arm, feel the weight of it. Whats your board like, the one he lent you?
He pulls the second board out of the back of his car and holds it up for me to see. Bit bigger. Six-four.
What do you normally ride?
He glances at me, his lips pressed together in a skewed smile. What? You mean my new board?
I colour. Yeah, the one that Look, Im really sorry about that. Truly. You dont know how bad I feel.
He scratches his nose. Oh, I dunno about that. You were pretty upset. I was worried I might have hit you in the head or something.
Yeah, well I look down at the ground and swallow, trying to clear a tight throat.
Im only stirring you, mate. It wasnt your fault. Just goes to show I cant turn for shit.
When I can look at him again my face is flat. I cant be bothered pretending that it doesnt matter, because hes just made me squirm, and thats
what he wanted, so I hope hes happy.
I normally ride a six-two. His voice has lost its smart-arse edge.
Well, do you want this one then? Thatd suit you better wouldnt it? I flip the board so its standing on end and push it towards him. Here, take
it back. Its cool.

He frowns. No, you have it, mate.

No, mate, you have it. I can wait for my board. I dont need to borrow one.
Hey, hey, settle down.
Well, Ive told you Im sorry. I feel like an idiot, all right? I feel like I should never surf here again. But I dont want to surf anywhere else, do I?
So Im stuck. All I can do is offer to pay for your board when hes fixed it. Except you said hell do it for free, but Ill give you the money it would
have cost anyway. How about that? Fifty, a hundred bucks, whatever. And my board tell him Ill pay for it.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Carly, youre taking me the wrong way. Hes holding up a hand like a stop sign.
Ive got a hangover, okay? So Im not very Its not easy sometimes.
Yeah. He gives a flat laugh. I know.
I feel nauseous. Its the heat, the hangover and the stuff Ive just said. No. Its Ryan. What am I doing here?
Here, take it. I shake the board at him. I dont want to owe you anything.
Mate, you dont owe me. I hit you, all right? So just calm down, take the board and just He shakes his head, holding his palms up.
What?
I dont know, just relax.
Theres an uncomfortable silence that goes on for a long time.
I feel stupid now, I say.
Youll get over it. You coming for a surf?
What? With you?
Well, that would be social.
I start chewing my cuticles. Whats it like? Have you had a look?
Yeah, not bad. Winds getting into it a bit. Theres some size, maybe three, four-foot.
What direction is the swell coming from?
Southeast.
Whats the tide doing?
Amused, he wipes a hand over his mouth. Close to low, I think.
Is that Shane guy out there?
Doubt it. He was at home when I left.
You live with him?
Cant always pick your friends. You all right, Carly? Youve gone white.
I swallow. My throats slippery with saliva, an early warning signal that Im going to spew. Whys he being nice? What does he want? I thought I
could handle this but I cant. Last night flashes in my mind, the feel of Martys dead weight on top of me. And that other night: hands grabbing,
tweaking, cupping. Slime between my legs.
Carly? Ryans voice is alarmed.
The world turns to static and I bend over quickly. I think Im going to be sick.
Here, come over to the tap. Have some water.
No I breathe deeply and close my eyes, fighting the urge to vomit.
When I straighten up again hes just standing there, not sure what to do. Ryans eyes are grey, but for the first time I notice there are chips of gold
in them too. He looks concerned.
I swallow again. I, um Sorry. I think I should go home.
You right with that? He means the board do I want him to carry it to my car?
I pick it up and tuck it under my arm. No, its right.
Maybe getting in the water will help.
No, I just I want to go home.
Yeah, okay. All right.
I realise then that Ryans disappointed Im not going surfing with him. Im not sure why that might be. I can think of reasons, like he wants the
guys in the arrowhead to see hes in with a chance. But somehow that just doesnt seem like his style.
But then, I dont know him at all, do I?

17
blue people
Coastalwatch
Swell size 0.5 metre Swell direction SE/NE
There are two swells working today 12ft of S swell leftovers combined with NE wind chop. Onshore dribble is nothing to get excited about

Sunday afternoon. The Laser is acting funny, sluggish and unresponsive. It could be because Ive got the air conditioning on. I dont like to use it
when its really hot because it labours the motor too much Ill have to ask Hannah if theres a word for that situation. Theres a loud knocking
noise coming out of the motor and its become really hard to steer, as though the bitumen has melted its tyres. I swear at it the whole way down to
the break, revving the engine unmercifully. When I pull into the back car park its full. I have to wait for a carload of guys playing doof-doof music
to finish wiping sand off their feet and leave.
I tried not to come here. I checked Mona Vale, Cook Terrace and Warriewood and they were all slop. Still, I jog up the dune to do a check. I
want to make sure Ryan and Shane arent there. Theyre not and Im not surprised. End of the weekend: crowd central.
I notice the guy in the line-up waving, but it takes me a while to realise, judging by his slim build, that it could well be Danny waving at me. I
wave back and he seems satisfied because he drops his arm. Im glad Dannys out there because I need to tell him hes got a job if he wants it.
Actually, thats not why. Im glad Dannys out there because it means Ive got a mate in the line-up. I run back over the dune to my car.

I paddle out trying to get used to a strange board. The decks slippery; I should have put more wax on it. Theres no grip pad either. Professional
surf wankers always go on about how they dont use grip, they like to be able to feel the board both hands on it, I reckon.
Dannys paddling towards me and I squint at the black marks on his face, confused. When he draws closer I see its scribble from a black felt pen.
He stops paddling and lets his board drift for a bit, eyeing me from a distance. Then he sits up, still a good five metres or so away.
Hey, Danny. Looking good.
He doesnt look at me. Did you find it?
Been doodling? I figure hes embarrassed.
I said did you find the DVD?
What DVD?
Blue Horizon. The surf porn remember? I put it in your mailbox.
Trying to talk to him from this distance is ridiculous. I paddle towards him. You put it in my mailbox?
Yeah. I put it there ages ago.
I sit up on my board. He still wont look at me. Im sorry. I dont always check it. Do you know youve got a moustache?
Yes, I do know Ive got stuff on my face, thanks for pointing out the obvious.
What are you thingy with me for? Is it because I didnt find the DVD?
His eyes slide sideways, but he doesnt turn his head. No.
How do you know where I live anyway?
I saw your car parked on Powderworks Road. I go past it all the time. I checked the names on the letters in the mailbox to make sure.
How do you know my car?
Ive seen you driving it around. And every time youre here its in the back car park. Sometimes I go that way home.
Oh.
He looks at me, frowns, and faces the horizon again.
Whats wrong? I ask.
You.
Me? Am I giving off stuff?
He screws up his nose. Yeah. Youre really bad today.
His whole attitude toward me has turned distrustful.
But I havent changed. Im not bad.
Most people are, with your colour. Like you dont know what theyll do sometimes. Do you know Shane?
The guy that surfs here? The one with the tatts?
Yeah. You and him are the same. Youre blue people. And hes a bad-arse. He punches people and he told me to piss off and tried to run me
over once. Sometimes he just goes insane. When I first saw you I thought youd be all aggro like him, but youre not. So I dont get how it works. I
had a blue teacher once, too. I hated that class.
Im sorry.
Its not your fault. Its just how you are.
Hes steadfastly keeping his gaze straight ahead now. He cant bear to look at me. I feel like Im some sort of leper.
But whys blue bad? I love blue. The oceans blue. The skys blue.
Blue people are different to that. Its not that sort of blue. Its dark, sick or dirty or something. And its got this bad electric look to it, this sort of
static, you know, like a TV when its not tuned in properly. Its sort of prickly, scratchy.
Oh.

Hes silent for a second then relents a little. Youre not like that all the time. Sometimes its only a little bit. Like the other day when I was
talking to you I didnt really notice it at all. But today its really bad.
O-kay. Feeling winded, I decide to change the subject. U h, Emilio thats my boss said you can have a job. You start on Friday. Same shift as
me, four-thirty to twelve. Thats if you still want it.
Can you give me a lift?
If you like. Im actually wondering how hell go stuck in a car with me and my evil energy.
You should be okay by then, he tells me, matter-of-factly. You better get that DVD, too. What if it rains?
Okay.
How come you dont check your mailbox anyway? Whats wrong with you?
Well, Im not expecting mail, I guess. Hannah cleans out my mailbox now and then, bringing down a bunch of junk-mail catalogues and the
occasional bill.
He seems to have relaxed a bit, if only because his minds on my sloppy mail habits.
Howd you get that stuff all over your face? I ask.
I slept over at my friends place last night.
And he did that? I guess youre lucky he didnt shave your eyebrows. Both of Dannys eyebrows are intact, but he does have arrows, stars and
smiley faces all over his cheeks, and a penis on his forehead.
No, his sister did it this morning when I was asleep. I sorta knew she was doing something, but I wanted to finish my dream. Its waterproof
pen.
Do you know what shes written coming out of your mouth?
Im gay. He doesnt seem overly bothered. I think she likes me.
I laugh. Have people been staring at you?
He frowns. I dont know. I guess so. I forgot it was there. Can you really notice it?
Well yeah, but I think its great. To me, Danny rocking up to surf with graffiti all over his face is magic. I want to tell him that I think hes
precious, that the fact he talks to me is a gift. But of course you cant say things like that to people.
Can you talk to my mum?
About the job? Emilio can call her if you want.
No, I want you to do it. I told her that youll give me a lift. It wont take long, just ring her. I wrote my phone number on the DVD, but you
wouldnt know that because you havent picked it up.
Okay, so the DVD is a major issue. Whens a good time to call?
Just ring tonight. Im gonna go now. I dont want to talk to you any more, youre too blue. They talk about Shane in the surf forums on the net.
You should check it out. See ya Friday.
He paddles across for a wave. When hes on his feet, I watch him head left. Hes turning really well considering theres not much push to the
wave at all, sending spray flying off the back like a series of retorts. He rides it all the way in.
I focus on catching waves, trying to ignore the paranoia Dannys started. I feel like Im the one with the Picasso face, not Danny. I feel like
everybody will see theres something wrong with me. Im up early on the next right and I start trimming across the top. Time slows when youre on
a wave, everything becomes that moment. This board is harder to turn than mine. Without a grip pad I cant gauge where my back foot is. I shuffle
back and the board responds better. Then I take aim for the lip. It pushes the front of my board, completing the turn for me. The wave ledges and I
lean back, dropping down, then race along the reform.
Its only a timeout. As soon as it ends Im feeling bad again. Dannys seen inside me and Im rotten.

18
the brazilians
Coastalwatch
Swell size 1.52 metres Swell direction E
Its on people

Thursday. A power swell has arrived and the break is absolutely jammed. The mid-morning slackers have been joined by a whole heap of workers
throwing sickies and kids wagging school. Im relieved. So many people means itll be easy for me to hide if I see Ryan out there. U p until now
Ive avoided him all week by going early or surfing late.
Im standing down at the Alley in board shorts and a rash vest, all jittered up with adrenaline, watching waves with massive faces pushing
through like lines of charging soldiers. There are so many people out there, swarming the waters surface like insects. Im torn between stretching
properly and giving myself a chance to watch how it breaks, and just getting in there and finding out. Waves are peaking in three places: off the
point, the middle of the line-up and over towards the lifesavers building. When it gets good like this some incredible surfers come out of the
woodwork. I watch this one guy do so many cutbacks he looks like a skier traversing across a mountain face.
A guy and two girls are standing near me getting prepared to paddle out. Brazilians. One of the girls has a short, powerful body and an aquiline
nose. The other girl is a looker. Tall with a thick brown plait hanging down her back, her teeth show white against her deeply tanned skin. The
three of them chatter to each other in rapid Portuguese, throwing and catching words and laughs within their triangle. The guys beautiful
brownness is marked by a swirling black tattoo covering the right side of his chest and his right arm, like half a shirt. He stretches his arms over his
head lazily.
The good-looking girl is pulling on a spring suit. Its grey and sleeveless and does up at the top of each shoulder. Theres something about it that
suggests overalls; its daggy. But her boards girly nice and glossy, looks new. Pink.
I hate pink. Almost as much as I hate frangipanis. I look down at my borrowed Hard Cut and wish I had my own board back. Especially now the
surf is so big. I dont know how this board will handle in waves this size.
I put my leg rope on and wash my hands with sand to get rid of any slippery sunscreen. Then I start wading into the rip. The paddle out has
three sections: the shore break, then this weird no-mans-land where theres no white water and the rip ripples into a series of humps like speed
bumps, then the last stretch where waves are breaking. Today, there is no real out the back, no safe place to sit and get a breather, because every
now and then a green monster looms on the horizon and everybody in the line-up paddles furiously to get through it before it crashes down on
them.
I decide to stay between the arrowhead and the point. The arrowhead is pretty hardcore today: a mass of restless bodies all trying to dethrone
the alpha males at the tip. The two Brazilian girls are the only other females out that I can see.
When Im there, I sit up on my board and take a look around. The guy paddling past me is a crow and a gentleman, and I see him out almost
every day. Hes puffing hard and gives me a nod.
Gettin a few? he asks.
Just got here. How are you going?
Buggered already and Ive only had two. He stops paddling and lets his board drift. Watch yourself today, love.
How come?
Therere some serious shenanigans afoot, my word.
I see what he means. On every wave coming through at least five guys take off. Theres a lot of whistling going on. The locals are taking most of
them. Theyre making the drop then bottom turning into the nearest man to push them off. Its physical argy bargy.
I wait ages for a wave. Finally one comes that mounds closer to the point than the arrowhead. It seems to loom up out of nowhere. A big one. I
get a roaring in my ears as I get to my feet, blinking because the offshore wind is lacing the crest and spraying it in my face. Im reminding myself
to lean forward because the worst thing you can do on a big drop is lean back. But I didnt reckon on the speed. Ive got so much speed by the time
I start my top turn that for a second I think Im going to shoot straight over the shoulder. But I make it and Im back to the trough again and
suddenly its all over. The wave flattens into nothing in the no-mans-land before the shore break. I jump up and down trying to rock my board
forward but its a lost cause. I sink slowly into the water.
If I want a longer ride, one of the long trundling lefts where the wall seems to defy gravity allowing you to cutback and re-enter over and over, I
need to be in the arrowhead fighting for it.
Another freaky big set pops up while Im paddling back out. The sheer size of the incoming wave face puts a beat in my throat. Im ripping my
shoulder muscles to paddle hard enough to get over that wall before it crashes down on me, and when I duck dive, I use my foot on the back of the
board, not my knee, so I can dig deep enough to avoid being sucked backwards by the waves momentum.
I watch the short Brazilian girl take off on one. Shes good. The good-looking girl is on the fringes of the arrowhead. She paddles for a lot of the
waves, but without much conviction. Shes getting nothing. She starts paddling in and I wonder if shes jacked off because she cant get a wave or if
shes scared because its big.
A body boarder takes off on one over at the point, his body silhouetted as he drops head first into the pit. He looks like a frog with his flippers
and bowlegs. Its a heavy wave, snarling back from the rocks and sucking up, the lip an unbelievably thick ledge of water. He gets creamed.
Im in a bad spot now. The guys closer to the point are on anything coming through this side. I decide to try the arrowhead. First wave I go for I
look across to find someone on my inside with someone on his inside. On the next one, Ive made the drop and Im looking at the wall stretching
away to my left, feeling the thrill of it, when someone whistles in a sharp, screeching blast. Yep, yep, yep! I turn to see an angry face, legs pumping
like springs. I kick-out quick smart like Ive been branded, paddle back out and just drift for a while.
Gettin a few? The voice, male, comes from behind me.
Its that Shane guy. Hes bare-chested, wearing a pair of footy shorts. His red and green tattoos look like sleeves, the rest of his body unmarked.

Its that Shane guy. Hes bare-chested, wearing a pair of footy shorts. His red and green tattoos look like sleeves, the rest of his body unmarked.
When I see him I feel drained, like someones pulled the plug on hope.
How are we today? he asks, his face blank.
Good. I clear my throat. How are you?
Not bad.
He drifts belly down on his board alongside me. Theres a cold burn in his eyes, a sort of madness. I think of what Danny said, that Shane and I
are the same. He cant be right. People in shops chitchat to me for no reason, old ladies call me love and ask me for directions they wouldnt do
that if I had that cold burn in my eyes. Shanes the sort you dont want noticing you.
A clean-cut looking man with rosy cheeks and shiny white skin parks his mini-mal next to me. Ive never seen him before and he doesnt look
like he belongs.
He notices Shane staring across at him and says, I just got here. Whats it like, mate?
Shane gives him a big friendly smile. Its like, fuck off, mate.
The guy blinks as though hes been slapped, then sets his face as though he never heard that and paddles away. I know how he feels and I feel
for him. Theres a metallic taste in my mouth.
With a start I realise how close Shane is, close enough to reach out and hold the nose of my board.
Hard Cut, eh?
Yes.
New or just a sparey?
Im thrown into confusion then. He mustnt know Ryan got this board for me. And if he doesnt know, I dont want to say anything. Im relieved
too, because it means Ryan hasnt told him about the car park on Saturday, how I acted. He hasnt given Shane anything of me.
Flustered, I try to steer the conversation away from the board. Did they hurt?
His eyes flick over me. Did what hurt?
Your tattoos.
He lets go of my board and stretches both arms out in front of him, considering his tattoos. Nuh. Not as much as some things.
I stare at his forearms. I can make out a naked woman with a snake going up her vagina. Shes holding a knife, slitting her own throat. There are
three playing cards on the back of his right hand: the Queen of Spades, the Jack of Hearts and the Joker. Red flames lick his elbow.
Theres a watch tattooed on his left wrist with Fuck Time inscribed on its face. Fuck oclock.
Hes not that tall, but his body is carefully cut. The lines of his face, his cheekbones and jaw, are sharp and precise. I can see the tufts of his
blond underarm hairs and under them the ladder of his ribs. Hes beautiful, in the way that a knife is beautiful.
He catches me staring at him and grins. My face flames and I look away.
Why? You thinking of getting one? A tatt? he asks.
No.
Not even a butterfly? Everybody wants a butterfly.
No.
Not much fun, are you?
No. He says it at the same time that I do.
Hes got a rapid-fire laugh: Ha-ha-ha-ha. Well, if youre not fun, dunno what Im doing talking to you then. See you later, Hard Cut.
He paddles lazily away, ankles crossed, whistling to himself. I stare at the horizon, the rest of the world blacking out.
A rogue set comes through and I dont make it through the first wave, but neither does anybody else around me. Were pushed backwards in a
line, caught inside. I duck dive three waves and paddle hard to get back out again. Im almost there when I notice the girl up ahead of me paddling
through the arrowhead. I do a double-take because for a second I think shes naked.
Its the good-looking Brazilian girl. Shes wearing this skimpy nude-coloured bikini which, strictly speaking, isnt more than three bandaids and
some string. Im trying to work this out, sort of shocked: so when she paddled in it was to take off her spring suit and come back out in this. Why?
Its a wonder she made it through the shore break without it being washed off. And I get that its the Brazilian way: beautiful beach, beautiful body,
let it all hang out. But even so, I think, Holy shit. Anyway, shes causing a ripple thats for sure.
And then I see how she keeps glancing over at Shane. Maybe because hes the only guy not paying her any attention. And because of his looks.
He goes for the next wave coming through, hassling the guy next to him something shocking.
Oi! Piss off! the guy shouts.
Shane gives him a malevolent clowns grin that stretches his mouth wide but doesnt reach his eyes. Everybodys watching but pretending not to,
fascinated sick by it.
They both take off, Shane dropping in. The guy is blowing his top, whistling and swearing and carrying on, and Shanes trimming across the face
like he hasnt got a care in the world. I swear to God hes singing to himself. He does a lazy cutback and the two of them collide.
I duck dive the next wave, then turn back to see theyre in the water, jostling and shoving each other like water-polo players. I can only see one
board, tomb-stoning in the drag. The guy tries to punch Shane in the face and Shane blocks his punch with his forearms. Then he disappears
underwater, giving the guy the slip, surfacing further over. Hes up on his board and paddling away in one smooth motion, his left foot up in the
air, keeping the drag of his leg rope to a minimum so the other guy cant grab it.
The other guy breaks into a thrashing freestyle heading towards shore and I realise hes lost his board. But how? Shane must have done
something to his leg rope. U ntied it? Cut it?
As Shane paddles back out, nobody looks at him, even though they were all watching before. Theres a prickle in the air. Its on, people. He
paddles straight to the Brazilian girl and sits up on his board next to her. I watch the two of them talking with a funny feeling. She keeps adjusting
her top, shifting the weight of her breasts in their tiny triangles of material. I can hear the low buzz of their voices. She seems relaxed. I want to
know what Shanes saying, because hell be acting all nice with her, Im sure of it. Beautiful girls are protected from the worst of mens shit. They
have it easy. Men are afraid of them in the same way that Im afraid of guys like Shane.
Ive had enough. I decide to paddle around the top of the arrowhead and head towards the point, try and get one in from there. It takes ages.
When I reach the back car park I crouch down under the tap for a long time. The taps swivelled around so that water spouts up like a geyser. I let
it run over my head, my chest, my legs. I wash Hard Cut off. Two mothers are watching a bunch of kids splashing around in the lagoon. An old

it run over my head, my chest, my legs. I wash Hard Cut off. Two mothers are watching a bunch of kids splashing around in the lagoon. An old
couple holding hands walks over the bridge. Things are so quiet on this side of the dune, so very different to the break. Its another world out there.

19
fridays bubble
On Friday morning I drag myself out of bed for an early, thinking Id rather face the pre-work crew than run into Shane or Ryan. I arrive back
home full of good intentions, thinking Ill tidy up. I have crap strewn everywhere: newspapers, wetsuits, dirty towels, my board cover, the pile of
clean washing that has been drip-feeding me clothes, my laptop, notepads, pens, glasses.
Im truly puzzled by the way I make mess. Every now and then I go into a cleaning frenzy and become insanely pedantic about getting
everything just perfect. But this morning is not one of those times. After ten minutes I go outside and lie in a puddle of sunlight on the deck,
overwhelmed by it all.
I keep getting up to look at the ocean, framed by trees and bamboo. Today its so blue it makes my eyes ache. Every time I walk out here my
head snaps around to see it, like the east has some magnetic effect on me.
Footsteps. Coming down the side of the house. I get up quietly, thinking Ill creep inside, slide my glass door closed and pretend Im not home. I
dont know who it is but I feel hunted. Maybe its Jean, my landlady, but she normally rings before she comes over.
Cookie? Are you there?
Hannah appears. Her hair is mussed up and shes wearing her black dress, holding her boots in one hand, with a newspaper wrapped in plastic
tucked under her arm.
Hey. Where have you been? I ask, surprised.
She leans against the side of the house, giving me a glassy smile. I went to my club last night. Joost rang and he was horrible to me. He makes
me feel so guilty, you know? So I thought, too bad, mate, I am going to party.
With Victor?
A frown crosses her face like shadow from a cloud, taking the smile with it. I went there to see him. But Victor was not enshooshiashtic when he
saw me.
So ?
So I danced with another man.
Is that a euphemism?
Her eyes widen in appreciation of the word. A euphemism, yes. I stayed the night with him, at his house.
Who was he? I sit back down in the sunlight.
Hannah sits down beside me, her legs straight out in front of her. His name was Paul. An Aussie guy.
And ?
Pah!
Oh.
But I brought you this, Cookie. She holds up the newspaper. I stole it from his driveway while I was waiting for my taxi.
Thank you very much. Hey, shouldnt you be at work? Its nine-thirty.
She shakes her head. Im not going. Im throwing a sickie. Like an Aussie.
Good for you.
I think you mean, go vaginas. But youre not surfing?
Already been.
Then youll read the paper now, wont you?
Yeah, I suppose.
I might read it too. Down here with you. Ill make us some tea.
While Hannah goes upstairs to get the tea ready all my cups are dirty, and anyway, I dont have a teapot, tea, sugar or milk I find the Metro
section. Turns out Bernard has swung fast and loose and reviewed folk, which I can never remember him doing before. But its actually Bruce
Springsteen doing folk music, which isnt quite the same as straight folk. He describes Springsteen as being gruff of voice, which I like. He talks of
drinking beers and stomping around a dance floor. He makes me feel like everybody else in the world knows how to have a good time except me.
I wish I wasnt so uptight. Then I look over at Hannah and realise Im not alone like I usually am. And it feels good to have some company.
Shes sitting cross-legged with the business section of the paper spreadeagled over her lap. She frowns at what shes reading and her forehead
stays creased while she checks my cup and hers and pours us more tea and milk, precisely measuring sugar into mine.
Hey, Hannah?
She looks at me and I shake my head, smiling. Nothing. Doesnt matter.
She nods and goes back to her paper.

Were still sitting there when my mobile starts ringing an hour later. I decide to leave it, thinking it must be Emilio.
But Cookie, your phone is ringing.
So I get up and run inside leaving a phone ringing is the sort of thing that messes with Hannahs mind.
The phone dies as I pick it up and I check the menu for missed calls. It wasnt Emilio who called, it was Ryan.
I wait to see if the message icon comes up, but it doesnt.
What to do? Maybe my boards ready. Maybe he wants Hard Cut back. Maybe curiosity is killing me.
He answers on the first ring, which sort of jolts me.

Ryan?
Carly, howre you going, mate? Marks rung to say the boards are done.
Oh, okay. Thanks.
Theres a pause long enough to be filled in with static.
Been getting out much? he asks.
I clear my throat. Yeah, a bit.
Havent seen you down there for a while.
U m, Ive been going different times. Because of work. Different shifts and stuff.
Yeah? What do you do?
Im a chef. Sort of.
Like a cook?
Yep.
Right.
Another long pause. The air feels heavy.
I make myself say it. Im sorry for being rude to you the other day.
No biggie, mate.
And thanks for getting me a board to use.
How is it, all right?
Yeah. Bit harder to duck dive though, and turn.
Dont tell Mark that. He fancies himself as a gun shaper.
I laugh.
So anyway, when youre ready to pick it up theyre down in Harbord Road, he says, sounding like he wants to wind this up. You know it? Ive
forgotten what number, but just drive along slow and you cant miss it.
I can find it.
Big Hard Cut sign out the front. Ive told Mark if you try and give him money not to take it. He did it as a favour.
Are you sure?
Yeah, no worries. All right then, catch you later.
I put the mobile down and rub my face. I feel like my stomachs dropping away. And thats that, then, I think, walking towards the deck. Before
I get there my mobile rings again.
So, its me again Ryan. His voice is different this time, not as brisk.
Hi.
So, ah, theres supposed to be a big swell building for the weekend, from the south. They reckon its going to hit Sydney on Sunday. Biggest
swell in twenty years or something. Hear about it?
U m, yeah. Coastalwatch has been going on about nothing else all week, sounding like the voice of doom: If you want to live, do not venture
out on Sunday.
So Ill be down at the break, bout eight or so. Theyll be towing in for sure. And probably off the Long Reef Bombie, too. Be worth a look if
youre interested.
He stops talking as though hes waiting for something. Im quiet because Im not sure if he means I should go with him. Im not sure what he
means at all.
Thats if you wanted to ah shit, this is hard. He blows out some air. Ive been thinking about you, Carly. If you want to come down, come
down. And if you dont want to come down, dont come down. Its up to you.
Okay. I would like to ask for some clarification, but I dont have the guts.
So yeah. Ill leave it there. All right?
Okay.
Might see you Sunday.
He hangs up before I can say okay again.
Hannah doesnt look up when I come back outside, and she doesnt ask me who called either. But when Im sitting down, flexing my feet and
pointing them, eyes shut and face raised up to the sun, she says, But youre happy, eh?
I blink at her, surprised. Shes right.
My happiness is crunchy. Snapping, crackling and popping in the sun.

That afternoon, I join the traffic streaming over the bridge into Narrabeen and look up at the pelicans hunkered down on top of the street lights
there. There are three of them. I wonder why they like to sit there in particular, on top of a thing made of metal with the angry buzz of traffic
rising up around them. The lagoon looks still and glossy today, the colour of liquorice. I flick my indicator and get over in the right lane, then turn
off into Mactier Street. I drive down towards the lagoon and pull into a courtyard surrounded by a grey three-storey unit block. A series of garage
doors lines the bottom level, grinning at me like teeth.
When I buzz number seven, Dannys tinny voice asks me if I can come up.
Why? Arent you ready?
Yeah, I just just come up.
There is an electronic whirring noise and the door unlocks. On the third floor, the top level, I come out on the landing and see Danny waiting,
holding his front door open. I hang back for a second, worried hes going to start wincing and carrying on, telling me that Im evil.
He looks worried, but not by me. I dont have a white shirt. I thought I did but when I looked I couldnt find one.
How come youre telling me this now?

Shh, Mums in the kitchen, shell go nuts. I didnt look until ten minutes ago.
I frown at him. Hes got the black trousers and hes wearing what I presume are his black school shoes, so hes fine in both those departments,
but the blue Billabong T-shirt wont meet franchise dress regulations.
Mums going to go psycho. I told her Id checked.
A womans voice floats up the hallway, drawing closer. Is that you, Carly, love?
Whats your mums name again? I hiss at Danny. Ive drawn a complete blank, which is bad because I spent a good forty minutes talking to her
on the phone last weekend after I saw Danny in the surf. She asked me a few questions about the caf, which took maybe three minutes, and then
she just talked at me about Danny, her job as a regional trainer for the Education Department and petrol prices. Not that it was bad, but shes one
of those women who download everything in their head when theyve got someone to talk to.
Liz, Danny mouths.
Shes not what I expected: a petite Chinese woman whod whisk me in the door and feed me dumplings and spring rolls. Liz is tall, on the
plump side of fat and a redhead. So its Dannys dad who must be Asian. She told me about him. He lives in Melbourne and Danny only sees him
three times a year.
Hi Liz. How are you?
Oh, cant complain. Thanks for taking him, Carly, its appreciated. What time will you be home do you think? Liz sounds slightly out of breath.
She sounded like that on the phone, too.
Ah, well finish at twelve. So I should be back here at about twelve-thirty at the latest.
Ill wait up for you. See how my cootchin went. She pokes Danny in the ribs and he squirms. Your first job, hey? Who would have thunk it?
Now, have you got everything? What about a shirt? You cant wear that. Danny, I told you to be prepared. How many times do I have to say it? Be
prepared.
I remember Kylie usually keeps a spare shirt in the office. It flaps around on her like shes a scarecrow, but itll fit me fine. Danny can wear my
whites.
Danny can borrow mine for tonight. Ive got another one at work I can wear.
Liz tuts at Danny and shoots me a pained look. Are you sure, Carly? I told him to get organised, and does he? She pokes him in the ribs again.
Naughty cootchin.
Mum.
Danny suffers a kiss on the cheek and we head downstairs. Liz holds the door open and yells encouragement until were outside.
I like your mum.
Easy for you to say.
Is it, cootchin?
Shut up.

How long have you had your car? Danny asks on our way there.
Almost two years. I got it when I started uni.
Hes got his seat pushed right back with his feet up on the dashboard, hes reorganised my radio to suit his tastes, and every now and then he
does a rollercoaster arm out his open window. Ive never seen anybody get such value out of a car trip.
He wrinkles his nose up at me, looking fresh-faced and young. U ni? Do you have to go to uni to be a chef?
Im not a real chef. I just work in a kitchen. To be qualified as a chef youve got to do a four-year apprenticeship. I did communications at uni.
That was before I started working in kitchens.
Communications? Whats that?
Like writing annual reports. Press releases. Stock market reports.
Danny giggles.
Whats so funny?
His eyes are all squinted up. You. Doing that.
I grin. Why not?
He flops weakly back in his seat. Did you like it?
No, not much. I dropped out.
So you could surf?
Pretty much.
Do you like what youre doing now?
Sometimes. I like being able to surf every day, that makes it all right.
Huh. Im gonna get a job where I can surf every day.
Like what?
I dont know. Just something.
Were passing Long Reef now, and as we near the car-park turn-off we both crane our necks to check the surf. Theres only that small window of
opportunity to see it because the scrubby vegetation blocks the view for the rest of the strip. It looks all right, a little chopped up from the wind,
but theres swell about.
Eeeeurgh! screeches Danny.
I cant make that noise.
Go on.
No, seriously, I cant. Ooooooh!
That doesnt sound very good. Eeeeeurgh! Whatll I have to do tonight?
Emilio will probably put you on bussing.

Bussing?
Youve got to go around cleaning up the tables and bringing the stuff into Roger.
Roger?
Hes the dish pig. Hes an alcoholic and he doesnt talk much.
Alcoholic?
You repeat just about everything, do you know that?
Everything?
I laugh, feeling light. Hey, want to go the back way into Manly and check the surf? What do you reckon?
Eeeeurgh!

Were halfway down Kangaroo Lane when Danny remembers he didnt lock his door, so I send him back to do it. The suns dropped behind the
top of the rock face and even though theres still plenty of light around, and the airs warm, it feels like summers on the way out. I watch Danny
jogging back to me, slightly pigeon-toed and scuffing his feet. Hes wearing my chefs whites, but he hasnt done the buttons up and the two sides
are flapping out behind him like wings. I start walking backwards as he draws near and as I do I notice the cream Kingswood parked on my left.
Martys car. I feel my heart lurch. Martys in the passenger seat, his head tilted back.
Where are you going? Danny says too loudly, and I tell him to shush.
I peer in through the window. Ive got this horrible feeling that Martys dead, overdosed or something. But hes asleep, mouth open, snoring. Hes
in his work clothes, his white shirt unbuttoned and crumpled. U nderneath it is the same T-shirt he was wearing the night he took me down to
Harbord. When he wakes up hell be bleary-eyed, and he will have been like that before he went to sleep, too.
Danny pushes past me and peers in through the window. Do you reckon he lives in his car?
He might now. I dont know. I overheard Marty telling Emilio the other night that hed had a fight with his brother. Got kicked out, eh? U ptight
bastard. He was on day shift today, so he wont be working tonight.
Since that night at Harbord, Marty has avoided me and Ive avoided him. The couple of times weve passed at work, hes said, Hows it goin,
Carly? and his eyes have looked right through me, in the same way he looks through Kylie. At first I was worried he might tell. The thought of
Georgina and Golden-Staph Adam knowing that Marty nearly had me on a beach made me panic.
But I didnt have to worry. Martys just blanked it out and hes blanked me out. Its this game I dont know how to play: the how-not-to-feelanything game. Its not as though I still like him or anything, thats all gone. Theres no mystery left, and the thought of him touching me again
makes me cringe. I think he feels the same way. Im sure he does. I didnt help him and he didnt help me. All that failure.
Who is he? Danny asks, staring through the back window at the pile of clothes and boots on the back seat.
Never mind. Lets go.
Im silent the rest of the way to work. Martys crashing. Hes not crashing the way I want to hes just closed his eyes and let go. Not seeing, not
feeling, not caring. And seeing him like that hurts; puts little paper cuts in my heart. Because what I feel for him is not the same as I feel for the
others: a sudden surge of hatred that washes over me like a red wave.
My throat gets tight and I take an enormous breath, stealing a glance at Danny. His hands are talking to each other and hes looking at people on
the Corso with open-faced interest. How can he just trust me like he does? He doesnt even know me. Doesnt he know that youve got to be
careful with people?
I think of Ryan, his pale, freckled skin and rain-coloured eyes, but Im only tracing the perimeters of him. Im not sure whats inside. Its
dangerous. Thrilling, but dangerous.

Danny wanders into the kitchen and stands behind Roger, holding a load of dirty crockery.
Where do you want this? he asks.
Roger grunts. Danny hesitates for a second then deciphers it to mean on the floor. Then he comes over and collapses onto the bench beside me.
Hey, Danny? When youre behind people, you say Behind so that they know youre there. So they dont step back into you and make you drop
what youre carrying.
Behind?
Yeah.
His face scrunches up in a giggle and he points to Rogers bum crack, visible between the sag of his trousers and his apron ties. Behind?
Emilio dings the bell and looks through the window at us. Danny, you can take a break now.
Danny pulls his cap off and his thick black hair reasserts itself.
You get fifteen minutes, I tell him. Go outside, take a walk around.
Nah. He pauses. Can I take my break when you take yours?
No, sorry. I dont usually take one.
How come?
Too much to do.
Huh. He pokes one of the eggs poaching in the pan on the back hob.
You right there, bacteria fingers? I dont really mind though. There are major differences between Golden-Staph Adam and Danny.
He pokes it again. How come so many people eat breakfast at night-time?
Theyre all back to front. Do you want something to eat? Ill make it for you.
No.
Just stand back for a sec. I pull a pan of mushrooms off the heat.
Danny sways backwards and slumps against the pass, holding onto it as though hes too weak to support his own body weight.
I plate up: toast, eggs, mushrooms and a handful of snow pea sprouts over the top to get stuck in peoples teeth.

Ill take it, he says.

But youre on break.
He shrugs. So.
I check the docket. Number twenty-two. Thank you.
Theres a lull in orders then so I mix up a batch of pancakes. We pre-cook them and microwave them on demand.
Danny comes back in and spies the jars of cinnamon and ginger on the prep shelf. Hey! These are the colour of Lara.
Who? Oh, that girl you like.
Yeah, these browns are good. Theyre spot on. He says it with the intensity of a mad scientist.
I start making walnut butter it goes with the pancakes.
Can I do stuff? he asks.
So I let him chop the walnuts, showing him how to use the knife so he doesnt cut his fingers off. If it was anyone else, Id be impatient and get
rid of them. Emilio passes through and sees Danny helping me, but doesnt comment. Roger doesnt seem to care either, because he goes out and
does the bussing run himself.
Danny finishes chopping, leaving the knife with its handle hanging off the bench. I pick it up and place it so that its blade is wedged under the
top right-hand corner of the chopping board.
He looks at me.
Just to be safe, I say. If its put up there, it cant go anywhere.
What do you mean?
U m, if the handles sticking out you might knock it off the bench by accident and go to catch it without thinking. Its just a habit to get into.
Yowser. He stares at the knife with wide eyes, obviously imagining this scenario, which makes me grin. When he looks back at me I can see this
tip on knife safety has somehow earned his respect.
What next? No, I know. He runs his finger down the prep list up above the bench. Muffins.
Okay, get one of those bowls out.
I show him how to use the scales, setting Tare to reflect the weight of the bowl. He measures out the dry ingredients, standing on his tiptoes. I
mix the wet ingredients together in a plastic jug. When hes done, I tip them in and hand him a spoon.
Danny, do you know a guy in the surf called Ryan?
Rhino? Hes focused on mixing, eyes squinted in concentration.
Yeah. Whats he like?
Why? You got the hots for him?
No. Hey, thats enough, dont mix it too much.
He lines a tray with muffin cake papers. Hes mates with that psycho, Shane. Rhinos hardcore.
Because hes friends with Shane?
No, because hes been to jail. He just got out.
I feel winded. Its a while before I can ask, Do you know why?
Nuh.
So hes dodgy?
No, Rhinos okay. Hes talked to me a couple of times and hes always been all right. Shanes the dickhead.
I think hes asked me out.
Shane?
No, Ryan.
Hes a good surfer. Old school, but good. Hes engrossed in spooning out the muffin mix.
I just wondered if you get anything from him.
Like colours?
Yeah.
A slow smile breaks across his face and he looks up at me. Oooh, wouldnt you like to know?
I go red. Tell me.
Carly wants to know about Ryan. Lurr-vers.
Thanks, Danny. Youve been really helpful.
Youre welcome.
I take a load of stuff over to Roger. When I come back, Dannys started on the second tray. I stand there for a bit, but then I cant help myself.
So what do you think about it? I ask.
About what?
About him asking me out.
He shrugs. I think its good.

Driving home, Dannys got his feet up on the dashboard again and hes singing along with the radio Beyonc, Crazy in Love. He falls silent when
we get to Long Reef and by the time we reach Collaroy his heads lolling sideways, heavy with sleep.
I drive ten kilometres under the speed limit the whole way. I drive like that because Dannys in the car and hes unbelievably precious and Im
terrified Ill have an accident or something, which is different to thinking Im going to crash. Im on the lookout for careless drivers, drunken
pedestrians. By the time we get to his place and I wake him up Im tired from the stress of it.
Im almost home when I realise that I feel clean. I feel good.
I dont know about the Ryan stuff. I just dont know. If I think back to the car park, I remember how concerned he looked when I was going to

I dont know about the Ryan stuff. I just dont know. If I think back to the car park, I remember how concerned he looked when I was going to
be sick.
But jail? Jesus Christ. What for? That cant be good. And hes friends with Shane and thats not good either. What did he say? You cant always
pick your friends.
Well, hes damn right there. I have two friends here: a fifteen year old who sees people in colours and a salsa-mad Dutch woman. I didnt pick
them, they just turned up in my life, and Im really glad. I think this and Im suddenly struck down with gratitude for all the things this place has
given me. The break, the ever-changing moods of the ocean and the best surfs Ive ever had. Tonight my world is a bubble. Clear, round, perfect
and fragile.

20
Sex
Eight a.m. and the morning is fresh. There is a little nip to the air, a reminder that colder times are coming: wetsuits, blue lips, bloodless feet.
Im going down there. I dont know how I feel about seeing him, exactly, but its eight so Im already late. I swing the bathroom door open and
shut a few times, trying to suck some of the steam out of the room before I plug my hairdryer in and dry my hair off. In my bedroom I hunt
through the mess on the floor for a pair of clean undies and a bra. Then I pull on my jeans, my lime green Stussy shirt and a white hoodie jumper.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror, stop what Im doing and peer closer, thinking: God, when did that happen? My eyes have changed colour.
Theyre blue, and they used to be green, I swear it. The skin underneath them is sun stained, far darker than my cheeks, because I always wear
sunscreen but dont like putting it near my eyes. I look like Im sick with a tropical disease. And Im thinner. I drink my food now: smoothies, fruit
juices, soft drinks and too much coffee. Solid food has become repulsive to me since I started working in that kitchen.
I sit down on my unmade bed. What will I be going down there for? Is it because Im bored with being alone? Im not scared of being alone,
thats different. Im bored with it, sick to the teeth of it, but not afraid of it. Im afraid of being with someone. Because the moment they touch my
breasts just so, weighing them in the palm of their hands, Im ripped back through time. Would you look at that?
I tried to have sex when I was at uni. Just once. He was friends with my flatmate, Matt the pothead, and he seemed so knowing, so sure of
himself, I was certain hed be able to unlock me. Make me like it, make me want it. On the night it happened, Karen, Matt, him and me went to
the pub. He and I stayed after the others had gone home, just long enough for him to rest his hand on my thigh so I knew what was on offer. Then
we stumbled home after them.
But when it came down to it, when we were in my bedroom and he was lying on top of me, I couldnt stand it. I pushed him off, told him I
didnt want to. The worst thing was he stayed anyway, just went to sleep on my bed. And I was sure it was because he didnt want Matt to know he
hadnt gotten lucky. He snored away and I lay there burning up, hating him and, most of all, hating myself.
Thats what Im afraid of. Sex.

21
the tasman sea swell
COASTALWATCH
Swell size enormous Swell direction S
Stay on the beach. Dont even think about going out unless youre a professional with a jet ski and a team to make sure you come up again

The top car park is three-quarters full. Everybodys down there to see the monster swell from the Tasman Sea. Twenty-foot wave faces are
predicted for some beaches, around midday.
Yesterday, the lifesavers were on the radio begging people not to go out because theyd only be putting other peoples lives at risk. When I woke
up this morning I went out onto my deck and I could hear the noise of it. The rumble was louder than anything Ive ever heard before, each wave
crashing like a baby avalanche.
I park the Laser and walk across the car park, carrying a travel mug full of coffee. There are maybe forty people along the railing, backlit by the
morning sun, staring out at the enormous swell. In its slipstream comes cold Tasman air. I rest my coffee on a post and zip my hoodie up. Then I
walk behind the backs of the spectators towards the lookout spot.
There are three jet skis out there and three surfers. Two of the skis are parked out the back, their drivers twisted around watching for a signal
from the surfers in the water. The third jet ski is sweeping in, towing a surfer in its wake. I stop walking to watch the jet ski whip him onto a
mound of swell that grows bigger and bigger as it approaches the land shelf.
The crowd erupts into hoots, hollers and claps. A surprised exclamation Augh! booms out like a handclap.
The surfer tracks left on the wave, backhand for him, trying to stay up near the top of the peaking slope. At the last minute as the wave begins to
shut down, he runs into a bottom-hand turn and uses the speed to kick himself out over the top. Hes in the clear. The jet skier zooms in towards
him then has to pull out again as another set rolls in. The surfer starts paddling sideways, trying to get out of its path. He gets sucked up a wave
face, but hes close enough to the shoulder to be able to push through in a duck dive.
Im blown away. These waves are magnificent, theres no other word for it. Feeling dazed, I start walking towards the lookout seat. Thats when I
see the group of men near the railing beside the showers, surfers all of them brown skin, faded jeans, T-shirts and old jumpers. I see Ryan in
amongst them. The rest of them are staring out at the ocean, but hes staring at me.
I glance away, feeling a thudding start up at the base of my throat. Am I supposed to go to him? With them there? I cant. I dont know what to
do. I climb up onto the lookout seat on the far side of a couple of baby boomers from Newport or somewhere further up the peninsula, by the
look of them.
The husband is explaining to his wife how the jet skis tow the surfers in because the waves are too big for them to paddle into. Also, I suppose,
in case one of them injures himself. Much more efficient for attempting rescue, I would imagine.
Hes read about it or reasoned it out himself.
The two of them are shielding me from Ryan. When the husband helps his wife down from the seat Im left exposed. I look north towards the
headland, but really Im trying to see if hes still watching me. He is. The weight of his stare is like a rope around my neck, tug, tug, tugging me in
his direction. I wonder if he thinks Im playing games. Im not. I just cant go over there while hes with a group of men.
I take a sip of coffee, feeling like a tosser with my travel mug, jump off the seat and hurry down the path to the beach, slipping in the sand. Out
front I sit on the pine railing fence in front of the lifesavers box. The beach is closed this morning so there are no lifesavers in there but instead a
father and his kids.
For a moment I forget all about Ryan. The waves are even more spectacular viewed up close. When they peel its like a line of skyscrapers
falling down, structural instability in one section creates a domino effect. Its completely different to the crocodile snap of smaller waves when they
close out on the banks. In between sets theres a lot of water moving about, giant rivers pushing and pulling in different directions. Im reminded of
the arrows drawn on weather maps to illustrate the flight paths of cold and warm air, the different fronts passing each other. The whole foreground
of the ocean is a sea of white foam, like ploughed snow.
Another surfer is up behind his jet ski, the pointed nose of his board carving his path through the water. He enters the wave too far inside and is
forced to link a series of turns, trying to build enough speed to make it across before hes buried by tonnes of water. He reaches the shoulder and
executes a slow graceful turn. With his legs so far apart and strapped into position on his board he looks like a toy soldier, feet mounted to a
plastic stand.
Howre you goin?
I jump. Ryan sits down on the rail without looking at me.
Good.
Massive, eh?
Yeah its huge. My voice sounds glassy.
See youve got your coffee.
I felt like it was an event. Going to see the circus.
It is a circus. Waterworks.
A prickly pause.
I was going to come over I have to squeeze the words out of my throat.
Yeah, I was waiting for you to.
to say hello. I just You were talking to those guys.
You were put off by them?
Sort of.

I glance at him, which is a mistake because I get trapped. I want to tell him to stop looking into me, stop reading me. I wonder why I ever
thought his eyes were cold. Or maybe theyve changed. I thought they were metallic the first time I talked to him, but I can see now theyre softer
than that.
So Im going to check out Dee Why next, he says. Hes talking in a soft, slow voice that I havent heard him use before. Do you want to come
with me?
Just you?
He nods. I say yes, and as I say it Im worried Im answering a different question.
As were walking back up the path, a group approaches and Ryan stands behind me to let them pass. I dont know which is more unbearable,
him walking beside me or behind me. When we reach the grassed area I keep my head down, but my gaze slides sideways to the group of men.
Im worried theyll be looking over at us, taking note. Theyre not. Theyre focused on the water. Ryans back beside me now and I notice he
doesnt look at them.
Do you want to ride with me? he asks.
Rhino! A male voice, one of the group calling out.
Ryan lifts an arm and waves, but doesnt stop walking. Ive got the same sense of vertigo I feel when Im driving my car and Ive got to fight from
scraping against the guard rail. God, if Im not careful Ill just unpeel in front of him.
Carly? He stops walking, waiting for me to answer him.
My forehead wrinkles. U m, I dont know.
Theyre watching. You dont know what he tells them and you dont want to leave yourself open to that. Next time youre out there, what will
you cop? Whatll they think they can get away with?
I could just follow you in my car, I say, and once again theres that glassy quality to my voice.
He scratches his head. Be a bit of a waste, wouldnt it? Two cars.
No, its cool.
Parkings going to be shithouse, mate. Theyll all be out having a look. Be easier with one.
Oh.
Look its no biggie. We can take two cars.
U m I tap my teeth with a finger, stare at the ground.
He watches me trying to make up my mind, not impatient, more amused.
Were strangers on first-name terms. We both surf here, but really that equates to meeting in the street. Its not the common ground you share
when you go to uni together, or work with each other, or meet through another friend. Do I trust him enough to get in a car with him? I dont
know anything about him, except hes been in jail.
Grinning, he shakes his head. All right then, two cars it is.
Are you sure?
Yeah. Lets just get going. He starts walking across the bitumen towards his Commodore.
I feel like such an idiot. All were doing is going to Dee Why, why do I have to make such a big deal out of it? He probably doesnt even like
me. Maybe he just feels sorry for me, especially after the way I lost it in the car park.
Except, his eyes sometimes I feel like theyre considering me. Asking me if I want to consider him.
He looks at me over his shoulder. Arent you parked over there?
Too busy freaking out, Ive followed him to his car.
Listen, okay, well, Ill come with you. If thats all right.
He moves his hands to show its fine, business-like now, playing it low-key. He opens his door, gets in, then leans across and unlocks the
passenger-side door. The windows down anyway, so I dont know why its locked.
I walk around to that side of the car and I just cant get in. I look at my watch. Then I poke my head in through the window. Hes staring across
at me and I notice the freckles over his nose, and how his chapped lips have got freckles too.
You know what? I forgot I have to work. So Ill drive its closer from there
Right-oh, mate. See you there.
He starts his engine and idles his way out of the car park. He waits for me just past the roundabout. We drive to Dee Why in a convoy.

22
turtlebacks at dee why
Ryan cuts through Dee Whys backstreets rather than driving along the caf strip, avoiding the traffic. At the top of the hill he turns right onto the
road leading to Curl Curl, then almost immediately left into a side street. He waits for me to park and we start walking towards the Point together.
Do you ever surf here? I ask, hurrying to keep pace with him.
Not much. I usually go to Warriewood if the southerlys bad.
Me too.
Is that right? Theres no warmth in his eyes now, not even interest.
He plunges into the crowd at the Point and I follow. Everybody is moving, trying to get a better vantage point, eyes on the surf, not where
theyre going.
Ryan sits down in the shade of a scrubby tree to the side of the stairs leading down to the tidal pool. Out of the sun.
I look at the sun spots on the back of his hands. Why dont you surf earlier if you dont like the sun?
Nines early.
No, like six or something.
Im not a morning person.
There are four guys out, two sitting up on their boards directly in line with the top of the pool and another two paddling out. The two paddling
are slowly getting swept north, not making any forward progress against the thick lines of foam.
Do you reckon they paddled out I ask, pointing to the two in the spot. Or just jumped off?
Ryan points to a man in a wet suit with a big wave gun tucked under his arm making his way around the far edge of the pool. The sets pushing
through force him to grab onto the pools chain railing to stop the white water sweeping him off. There are two boys in board shorts further up
from him, on the inside of the chain railing. Every time white water sweeps over the pool ledge they take cover, squatting down and holding onto
the chain so that only their rounded backs are visible through the surging foam. When the push and pull has stopped they stand up again, laughing
at each other and the thrill of what theyre doing. The pool is churning and boiling.
Turtlebacks, I say, and Ryan glances at me. I point to the boys. Id love to do that.
His voice is flat. So go do it.
My face burns red. A line of swell looks to be shaping up nicely for the two guys in the spot. The guy on the inside goes for the wave and in that
moment the crowd is still, watching him taking the drop. Hes almost vertical, his gun a slash down the wave face, then he lands it, bottom turns
and starts heading across.
Im not going to bite, you know.
I realise Ryans watching me and I feel like Im in a spotlight, arms out to the sides, attempting to cross a tightrope.
I know, I just Ive got to go to work, like I said if you mean the car thing.
He does a slow nod, sucking air through his teeth. Youve got to go to work.
And I dont really know you.
He shrugs. No, I spose you dont. And I dont know you either. All I know is that youve been turning up to surf where I surf.
Well, I love that break. Its my favourite break in the world.
I see the smile Ive surprised out of him.
Your favourite break in the world, hey? He looks back at the surf, the smile still tugging the corner of his mouth.
Now he isnt watching me, I can be bolder. When I first started surfing there, you werent there then. You said youd been away. Where were
you?
He raises his sandy eyebrows, answering my question with a question of his own. Do you really have to go to work?
I look away from him at the boys making turtlebacks. Another wave smashes towards them and this time one of them turns around and lets the
boiling foam sweep him into the baths. He gets sucked under and surfaces about halfway down the pool.
I do have to work, but not until four-thirty.
Thought so.
Where did you go?
He narrows his eyes at me, suddenly appraising. The thing with Ryan is, I never know what hes thinking but I feel like he can see straight
through me.
I was inside, he says. Jail. You want to know what for.
Im not sure if I do or I dont.
His voice is flat. Or are you going to say it doesnt matter?
Resting my chin on my forearms, I pick my words carefully. Only if its for a bad thing.
People dont usually get put in jail for charity work.
No, I mean therere bad things that dont matter and therere some that really matter.
His eyebrows twitch. Youre a weird fish, you know that?
Im not a fish.
Dunno about that, you spend a lot of time in the water.
I start laughing but it turns into a sob. And just like that I start to unpeel. Its caught me by surprise.
Straightaway, Ryans looking at me and theres nowhere to hide. Whats up?

Nothing. Im sorry. This is embarrassing. Im going.

No need to go. You cry if you want. Doesnt bother me.
After a bit, I say, Its just hard.
Crying?
I laugh, then sniff. No, this. Im not very good with people. And I dont know you.
Yeah, you mentioned that. Isnt that what were doing now? Letting you get to know me?
Yeah, but
Were not getting married, mate.
I swallow. When Im sure Ill be able to keep my voice steady, I say, Dont make me feel like an idiot. Every time I talk to you I come off feeling
like an idiot. I mean, you must think Im insane. And Im not not normally. Im just tired and I dont know
Shh.
His eyes are looking all the way into me. For a moment we stare at each other then he looks back at the ocean and I watch the two boys making
turtlebacks. I dont make any noise but the tears are streaming down my face. I can sense Ryan occasionally looking sideways to check on me.
Something about the two boys reminds me of Danny. They look so innocent, so happy and free. Then my crying turns into sobs, which is really
crossing a line, I have to say. Its just so ridiculous. Im in the middle of a crowd on Dee Why Point, watching the biggest surf Sydneys seen for
years with a guy I shouldnt be anywhere near, having some sort of breakdown.
I bury my face in my hands. And then Ryan does such a nice thing. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in against him. I can
feel his body heat through his cotton T-shirt, and directly in front of me are the worn, faded knees of his jeans. But most of all, I can smell him.
And he smells sandy-warm, like a beach. No one can see my face in there protected by his chest. Which is good because I cant stop crying. I mean,
Im really going for the world record in terms of an inappropriate public breakdown. But it doesnt matter, it just doesnt matter. Im sheltered.
When the storm finally breaks, I give a big juddering sigh. Ryan doesnt shift his arm.
Theyve given up, he says.
I sniff, but dont move. Who?
The guys trying to paddle out.
Thatd be the worst paddle out in the world.
Quicker to jump off.
Yeah, but imagine if you stuffed it up, I say. Youd get hammered.
Its a silly conversation, the type of conversation you have when neither of you wants to acknowledge whats really happening.
Im okay now. My voice sounds thick and scratchy like Ive got a cold.
I pull away and he drops his arm. But we remain sitting so close to each other that our sides are touching. He puts his arm back on his knee and
I feel the hairs on his forearm brush my skin. I feel so exhausted I could sit there for years, washed out from crying.
I dont have to work today, todays my day off. And tomorrow. I lied, I say. Hes just seen me lose it so Ive got nothing to hide behind any
more.
He shakes his head, lips skewed in a funny smile. Do you even have a job?
I blink. Yeah.
So that bit was true?
Sorry. I lie all the time. I dont even know why. Do you work?
More like self-employed. And, no, I dont have to work today. He lifts his arms above his head and stretches.
I shift away, giving him space. I feel like Im in the dark again, wondering what hes really thinking, what he wants from me. Wondering why
hes bothering with me, actually. Maybe hes bored now, or Ive freaked him out with the crying thing. Hell make an excuse and go.
Mate, Im going up to Long Reef headland to take a look. Be good to see the Bombie working.
Oh. Okay.
He waits for a beat, then gives me that funny smile again. You want to come?
I blink, realising what hes said. Okay.
Well take both cars, yeah? Be a pain in the arse to have to come back here.
Okay.
He gets to his feet and I do the same, suddenly skin-sick for the feel of him again. If he took my hand, Id let him hold it.
He walks in front, leading me through the crowd, looking back from time to time to check Im still following.
Hey, Rhino!
Ryan turns in the direction of the voice. The guy grinning at him is short and squat, wearing a New South Wales State of Origin jersey, his
sunglasses pushed back on his head.
Rhino, mate. How are ya?
Mick, Ryan says, and they clasp hands in a solid shake.
I hover behind Ryan, hoping this will just be a quick hello, not wanting to be noticed with my puffy red eyes and swollen face.
When did you get out, mate? Mick asks.
And Im listening hard to his voice, his stupid, slow Australian-male voice, checking for recognition. And I wonder if Im going to keep doing
that for the rest of my life, driving myself mad.
Not long ago, Ryan says.
How fucking goods that? Mick says, then flicks a look at me. Oops, sorry.
Because youre not supposed to swear in front of girls, at least not when you meet them for the first time. Men like to do that pretend theyre
better than they are.
Ryan clears his throat, turning to me. Carly, this is Mick. Mick, Carly.
Mick nods. Howre you goin, Carly? What are you doing hanging around with this loser?
I dont answer, but it doesnt matter because hes straight back to Ryan anyway. Men like men like Ryan. To Mick, Im just window dressing.

Im starting to burn. Because I hate Mick. I just hate him automatically. Hes everything about men that I hate.
So what are ya gonna do with yourself now, mate? Mick asks.
Get a job. Ryans impatient to get going, but Mick doesnt seem to notice, planting himself in the conversation by widening his legs as though
hes getting in position for a good piss.
Mick laughs. You? Working? Thought you were the captain of Centrelinks surf team, mate.
Why do they put mate on the end of every sentence? Is it to let the other one know the transmissions finished, like over on a two-way radio?
Why am I still standing here, listening to their shit? They are all the same. All the same.
Good to be out of the big house, mate? Mick asks.
What?
Jail good to be out?
Ryan doesnt hide his irritation. It was jail, Mick. What do you reckon?
I turn and start pushing my way through the crowd, getting away from them.

23
toxic shock
The moons half full half empty. Im out on my deck. Theres a light breeze shifting around and I can hear the occasional car on Powderworks
Road, but mostly Im aware of the surf, exploding in the distance. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me and I think its drawing closer, but of
course it cant. It can only stay in the background like a threat.
Hey, Rhino! Why do they call Ryan, Rhino? An obvious extension of his name? Or innuendo rhinos have horns. Im always surprised when
mens nicknames turn out to be innocent. I expect them to have an underbelly; I always expect men to drag things down to sex.
I wonder if Ryan noticed me leaving? Did he think Id wait for him back at the cars?
I roll over onto my stomach, feeling a pressing pain. I sit up again and unbutton my jeans, wriggling them down so I can inspect myself. There
are matching pear-shaped bruises on the front of my hips, vivid purple against my skin. The bruising is from me knocking against Hard Cut, not
quite fitting with a new board. There are bruises on my shins too, where I was hit by the rail, and a cut across my right triceps where I landed on a
fin. I get injuries in runs and look like Ive been bashed, but its just the surf breaking me in. Your body adapts to some of it. The skin on the top
corner of my right knee is thick and calloused, and when I dont wax my legs for a while a dense patch of hair grows there. Its from continually
rubbing against my grip pad when Im duck diving.
When I was eighteen three men broke me in, and they left marks on my body, too.
The morning after it happened I came to, lying on the floor of a bedroom in a high-rise holiday unit. I sat up too quickly and began to retch, but
I knew from the wet, sour-smelling carpet that there was nothing left in my stomach.
To begin with I was just focused on moving slowly, trying not to set off another round of electric shocks in my head. But gradually I noticed signs
of trespass: my underpants were on the floor beside me, my skirt was still on but stretched out of shape, my top and bra were pushed up over my
breasts. And then I remembered everything. It kept coming and coming in horrible flashes that wouldnt stop.
There were three of them; I heard three separate voices. No, lock it. Lock the fuckin door.
The third one was the gentlest and the worst. When he turned me over, I think it was so he could see me. As he did, my eyelids snapped shut,
like a doll I remember playing with as a kid: Lie baby down and look! baby goes to sleep. That was the hell of it: hoping he wouldnt find out
I was really there after all. I was drunk, seasick from alcohol, upside down in my own body, but not drunk enough.
He pushed my top up and then my bra, so that the scratchy lace brushed over my nipples and they hardened. Then he was still and the room
was silent. The others had left by then.
I felt tentative hands cup my breasts, as if weighing my sexuality. Would you look at that? He spoke out loud and there was wonder in his voice.
Then the weight of him on top of me, heavy on my chest, claustrophobic. When he did it, he did it slowly, as though it was something I wanted.
The next morning the yellow slime from them had dried like spit into scabby peeling patches on my thighs. I fixed my clothes up in front of the
mirror, rubbing at my smudged make-up, my racoon eyes. Then I left, tiptoeing through the aftermath of the party, the beer cans and bodies
littering the lounge room floor. I walked through the streets of Surfers Paradise not knowing where I was, trying to find a clue that would lead me
back to the block of units where I was staying with my friends from school. Every few minutes Id stop and dry retch into the gutter, ignoring the
frowns from early morning walkers, people who looked like my parents, knowing the word that was in their heads.
My parents. Me going on schoolies week was the biggest campaign of defiance I had ever mounted against my father the fury on his face when
I wouldnt be controlled and told him I was going anyway. And look how it had ended. Hed won. I was exactly what he thought of me. All this
time and he was right.
I was disgusting.
The shame I felt. The shame I feel. But I could not have borne the shame hed make me carry. I could not have borne my mothers
disappointment.
I never told them.
Forever later, I found the unit block where we were staying and I went inside.
Ooooh, somebodys had a big night.
A round of giggles followed. Vanessa, Deanne and Bec were sprawled on the kitchen floor, surrounded by chip packets and empty bottles of
Spumante, drunk, racooneyed like me. There were two other girls staying with us, but theyd stayed in the night before and were probably still
asleep in bed.
Where have you been?
Vanessa asked the question, but all three wanted the answer. There was a jealous edge to the way they watched me. For the past four nights the
six of us had searched, getting smashed every night, going from club to club, pushing our way through the thousands of sweaty bodies in the Mall.
We were sure that there was something really good going on somewhere and that everybody else had the inside information, it was only us who
were out of the loop.
They were worried that Id found it. Worried Id had a better time than them.
I was worried that theyd smell it on me. Afraid theyd see the stain of it on my face. Because I couldnt trust them with it, I realised. If I told
them, Id hear the thrill of it in their voices. The drama. The bigness of it all. They would pick me apart like birds feeding.
That was the start of it, the need to be alone.
We looked everywhere for you, Bec said, a hint of resentment in her voice.
And Id been paranoid that theyd meant to give me the slip. Wed been at a club and Id gone to the toilet and when I came back they were
gone. But maybe I forgot to say where I was going; I was pretty drunk, so I might have just wandered off. Maybe they had been looking for me. Id
ended up in the Mall, looking for them. Maybe theyd done the same.
None of it mattered now.
I walked off and one of them said, God, whats up her arse?
Once I was inside the bathroom, I locked the door. I turned on the shower and stripped off and then I put a finger up my vagina, trying to find

Once I was inside the bathroom, I locked the door. I turned on the shower and stripped off and then I put a finger up my vagina, trying to find
the tampon Id inserted the night before, a million years earlier.
Getting that tampon out was my sole focus. Mum hadnt told me about tampons we never talked about that stuff at all I relied on Dolly
Doctor for the information, which came with the necessary warnings about toxic shock syndrome. For some reason Id always taken those warnings
to heart and right then they loomed large in my mind, blocking out everything else.
I prodded myself for that tampon in a mindless frenzy. It had been up there for well over eight hours and it was too far up inside me to be safe.
What if I couldnt get it out again? Id get toxic shock and die. I think that was the only thing my mind could hold onto right then. Toxic shock.

Some people size you up by what school you went to, or what youre doing at uni, or the car you drive, or if youre working a shitty job, or if
youve got a good personality, or a sense of humour. Thats not how I see people. I see people as either what theyve done or whats been done to
them. Read the newspaper. Its full of people defined by actions. If a high court judge drink drives, he becomes a Drink Driving High Court Judge.
If a woman is injured by a Drink Driving High Court Judge, then she becomes the Victim of a Drink Driving High Court Judge.
If youve been raped, you become a Rape Victim. When people talk to you, theyll have a picture of you in their mind you lying on the
ground, men moving over you. But they wont be empathetic; they wont put themselves on the ground. They taste power, that little hint of vinegar
that puts a twist in their lips and saliva in their mouths.
Look at the media. They concentrate on what was done to the Rape Victims. First by the rapists and then by the courts. Theyre feeding
something there. People are greedy for the details, fascinated sick by them. I think it should be illegal to tell. I think that the person who was raped
should own the copyright on what happened to them. They never give details on what happens to the rapists, later, when they go to jail. Nobody
cares.
And the Victim does not get angry. The Victim is devastated, traumatised, shocked, distraught, but not angry. Thats left to the victims father or
brothers. Anger is for men.
Except I can sit here and think like this all night and you know what it does? It starts a bushfire in me. My chest tightens and my jaw clamps and
my hands shake and I can feel it burning me up and theres just no relief from it. I want to drive and even then I dont think I could crash hard
enough.
Im glad I never told anybody. Nobodys ever going to smell the vinegar on me. Because thatd be just like letting it happen again. Once they
know theyve got hold of your shame, they can shake it out and hold it up for all the world to see. And you become less than it. You become
something disgusting. Tainted. Stained. Soiled.
When I got back from the Gold Coast, I stopped talking. I worked a lot of extra hours at the restaurant where Id had a part-time job since grade
ten. I surfed. I had two months to get through before I left for Surry Hills and uni. My family thought I was being difficult and selfish when I should
have been sorry, or at least repentant, for defying Dad. My friends thought I was standoffish because I was leaving and Id already forgotten about
them. But I just wanted to be alone.

24
the lagoon
My mobile rings while Im lying on the deck. I dont move. It rings out, then after a short silence starts up again. I answer knowing its him before I
check the screen.
Hello?
Carly? Ryan sounds uncertain. Ive, uh, got your board. Thought I might as well pick it up while I got mine. Went by Hard Cut on the way back
today.
I can hear music and people talking in the background, but muted, like hes in a room with the door closed.
Carly?
Thank you. Ill take the other one back tomorrow.
Yeah, or you can give it to me. Ill drop it off next time Im going past that way.
I go past there on the way to work. But you know him the shaper guy so its up to you really.
Right. Its up to me. His voice is sour; he sounds like Shane.
He lets the silence run long this time, trying to draw me out.
Okay, Carly, I might as well cut to the chase because listening to you saying nothing is costing me money. Ill take your board back to Hard Cut
tomorrow and you can pick it up when you drop the spare off. That way you dont have to see me. Hows that sound? Happy?
God. I whisper the word, rubbing my head.
So Ill see you later.
But he doesnt hang up, he waits again. Carly?
Dont.
Dont what? Youre giving me bad dreams, Carly. I want to see you and I dunno why that is, because every time I do were either crashing into
each other or you get the shits or youre upset or you just piss off without a word He stops abruptly and I hear him draw breath.
When he speaks again his voice is calm. Look, I noticed you the first time I saw you down there. I dunno why. I rated the fact you had a go,
went for anything, even if you got hammered. And I thought, yeah, wouldnt mind knowing her better. But it wasnt a big deal. Just like having a
drink together sometime, or like watching the surf today, taking it easy. But Ive got to tell you, mate He gives a flat laugh. Its just all too
fucking hard.
I feel gutted. Im pressing the phone hard against my ear.
Carly? Are you there, Carly?
Yes.
You got anything for me? Anything at all?
Im sorry.
I dont want you to be sorry. I told you that today. I dont care if you cry or what you do. All I want from you is a clear indication as to whether
I should just bugger off.
I drag in a shaky breath. Dont bugger off.
You sure?
Im just not I told you, its
Its what? Somethings chewing you up, mate. What is it?
I cant.
Cant what? Have children? Well cross that bridge if we ever manage to have a beer together. He blows out a stream of air then mutters, Im
going grey over this, I tell ya. Another sigh. Have you got someone already?
No.
Is it because Ive done time?
No.
Okay, so What do you want to do, Carly? You want to have a drink together sometime?
Okay.
How about tonight?
Tonight?
Yeah, tonight. Lets hit this while its hot. Things can only improve from here. Do you want to go for a drink with me tonight?
Oddly enough I feel calm. Like the decisions been taken out of my hands and Ive just got to go along for the ride.
Okay.
How about The Sands? Ill meet you there, bring your board.
Okay. But can you come and get me? Im sorry to be a pain but I dont think I should drive tonight.
Theres a surprised silence, then, Yeah, for sure, mate. No worries.
I give him my address and he says hell be ten minutes. Then, keeping his voice carefully casual, he tells me to wait for him out the front if I
want, like hes letting me know theres a back exit.

When we get to The Sands, the guy in the beer-garden bar tells us theyre closing up in five minutes.

Ryan glances at his watch. But its only ten oclock.

Sunday night, mate.
Ryan turns to me. Well, thats blown that then. You want to try Mona Vale Hotel?
Wouldnt they be closing up too?
Okay, well, what about we go back to my joint, pick up some beers and head down to the lagoon? Just talk.
Will that Shane be there?
Or, we can get beers from the bottle shop here.
The bottle shops closed, mate, the bar guy says.

His place turns out to be an old fibro house in one of the flat streets near the caravan park and the lagoon. Theres a collection of cars parked in
front of it, some of them up on the lawn. Ryan parks in the actual driveway. I notice that the street number, twenty-four, has been spray painted
onto the house. The front door is wide open, spilling music and laughter out into the street.
Hey, you live right near the break, I say.
Yeah, its all right, eh?
And you drive there?
Ryan actually looks sheepish. Lazy, I guess.
He switches the motor off and neither of us move.
Shanes got a few people over. You want to come in and meet em?
Not really.
Yeah, fair enough. Okay, wont be long.
He gets out of the car, shutting his door, and crosses the lawn, bounding up the houses four front steps. Theres a jumbled collection of boots,
sneakers and thongs on the landing. It gives every impression of being an all-male household.
Rhino, mate! We thought youd pissed off on us! Theres a burst of laughter then the voices resume their talking.
I cant help myself. I open up Ryans glove box and poke through the contents. There are a lot of cassettes, both bought and taped, mainly old
school rock Cold Chisel, AC/DC, Hunters and Collectors, Bruce Springsteen as well as some stuff I didnt expect, like Ryan Adams, Living Colour
and Jeff Buckley. I wonder what Bernard Zuel would make of all that. Im pretty sure hed approve, especially of Ryan Adams, Bernard lurves Ryan
Adams. There are road maps, a crushed Coke can, a tide table from 2005
Pssst!
I give an almighty jolt. Shane is leaning in through the drivers side window, watching me with glittering eyes.
Howre you doin? he whispers.
Good?
Thats the way. He sucks his bottom lip, regarding me thoughtfully, not blinking once. What are you up to?
I was just looking for something to play.
Someone to play with?
No. Music.
Hanging out with Rhino, eh? The Rhino.
I dont answer.
He hangs his arms through the window and for a second the pictures on his skin seem to move. I can sense the hate coiled up inside him. Danny
is right you dont know what hell do next.
I got a new tattoo.
Did you? Thats good.
You want to see it?
No, Im okay.
You sure? Its a butterfly.
U m, no thanks.
You dont want to see my butterfly?
No, mate, she does not want to see your friggin butterfly. Ryan pushes Shane out of the road and I shut the glove box quickly. Go on, bugger
off.
He leans down to the window. You coming, Carly? Well walk there.
I get out of the car. Shanes standing on the steps watching us as we walk off.
Ha-ha-hah! You have fun now, kids.

Down by the lagoon there are a couple of guys out fishing. We sit side by side on one of the picnic tables near them, our feet on the bench seat.
Ryan screws the top off a beer and hands it to me.
So is it just you and Shane living there? I ask.
Yeah. Now. Not always. People come and go. Weve had it for years. Landlord is too tired to kick us out, but every now and then he puts the
rent up. Hes all right though.
Im so conscious of him right next to me. We drink in silence for a while.
You like this place, Carly?
What, the lagoon?
He shrugs. All of it.

I like this place a lot. The lagoon, the break, everything. The people some of them.
Yeah, about Shane
I didnt mean
Nah, its all right. I could tell you that hes okay but we both know hes not. Ive been mates with him for years. We went to school together.
Always surfed together. He didnt have it great growing up, but he was good value back then. Who knows, eh? His mum Anyway. The drugs
havent done him any favours.
Is he Its obvious, I guess.
Yeah. Id rather be surfing myself. I dunno why that wasnt enough for him. He started mucking around with stuff at school, nothing serious but.
And then he just, you know, kept going. He sniffs. Thats why I was in jail, by the way. Dealing.
You dont have to tell me
He holds up a hand. Nah, I wanted to tell you about it, just so youd know. I wasnt using, but I thought dealing was easy money surfing
finance. A better option than surfing for Centrelink.
Pardon?
The dole. But yeah didnt work out.
Was Shane ?
Involved? No, mate. He just uses. He had nothing to do with all that. They didnt even care about me that much. I was only small time I dont
think they ever watched the house or anything. They wanted the guy I was getting it off. I was just picking up at the wrong time. Thats the way it
goes but. Anyway, doesnt matter. Its probably good the way it worked out. It was all getting to be a big hassle.
How come?
Aw, you mess people up, theres no getting around that. Like Shane it wasnt doing him any good, but I never worried about it. I fixed him up,
just like anybody else. Thats why I dont know. Shanes a pain in the arse but sometimes hes all right. He takes a swig of his beer. And then,
yeah, the logistics were a nightmare.
Like what?
Well, youre like a courier. Youre hanging around all the time, waiting for people to call, then you got to go meet them. Its boring. And its all
cash, so youve got all this money around the place. And you cant bank it and you dont want it stolen so youve got to spend it. You get used to
burning through it, but nothings really good any more because its all so easy to get. I bought a new car, just to get rid of some of it. Paid cash.
Next week I totalled it, so I was back to the old Commodore.
He takes another swig of his beer. Its not like you can buy investment properties and shares and that, because then theyll trace it, so youre
stuck. You cant set yourself up for retirement, if you know what I mean.
That makes sense.
His face changes, becoming hard, his eyes metallic. Then, in jail, everybody knows youre a dealer, that youve probably got money on the
outside. You get hassled all the time. Its not pretty. But Shane took care of my things and they never got nothin out of me.
He shakes his head and exhales. After a moment, hes back to normal. So yeah. When I got out, I thought, thats it, not going back in there. Time
for something else.
I say the stupidest thing. Im glad youre not going back.
He looks sideways at me and grins. Yeah? Well thats good news.
He puts an arm around my shoulders and theres this awkward moment because something like that is never casual, especially the first time. My
stomachs shot through with air.
How old are you, anyway? he asks.
Nineteen.
Just a baby.
No, Im not. I sound like Danny. What about you?
Twenty-six. So you like this place then? Dont ever want to go back to Forresters?
Not really. There are a few issues. I take a deep breath and then tell him about dropping out of uni and the fight with my dad. Hes one of
those people who are so certain they know what other people should do with their lives. I guess everybody does that a bit, but with him, he takes
it further. He cant just let you be, respect your decision. He has to grind you down until he wins. Thats where hes really sick. Like, he doesnt care
about me or my life. He cares about me doing what he wants. If he cared about me, he wouldnt have told me to get out. I finish all this in a rush.
Then I take a breath. Sorry.
Ryan squeezes my shoulder. What for? It sounds like shit, mate.
It doesnt matter.
Whyd you drop out of uni?
I think for a second then shrug. I guess because I didnt even know what I was doing there. It was like I got out of school and then I was signed
up for the next three years and I really, really just wanted a break. Some time to think. I dont know. It was like if I didnt step out of it then,
before I knew it Id be stuck in some office job for the rest of my life. I just sort of panicked. I take a sip of beer. Mostly, I wanted to surf. Surfing
on weekends sucks. Do you know what I mean?
Mate, I know what you mean. Least you were smart enough not to sell drugs.
I laugh, looking at him. Then Im caught because his face goes all intense. He stares at me, drawing me in.
So did he fix your board okay? My voice is squeaky. Hes so close.
He doesnt tell me. He places his beer on the table beside him, reaches across for mine and puts it down too. Come here.

Its late when we drive back to my place. We dont pass any other cars on Powderworks Road. Hannahs Barina is in the carport, but her place is in
darkness. He parks up on the footpath behind my Laser and switches the motor off. The silence is so loud that I panic for a second and violently
wish I was drunk.
I hear the slap of his thongs as he follows me down the steps at the side of the house, and Im so aware of him, and so aware of the pressure

growing inside me.

I unlock the glass sliding door, telling him, Its just in here, sounding like an idiot.
Then, inside, the fluorescent light is too bright. He stands inside the doorway, seeming to fill up the whole room, and Im looking around,
pretending that I cant see all the mess.
U m Do you want a glass of water? I ask.
Yeah, okay. Close this ? He means the door.
Oh yeah. Thank you.
In the kitchen, I look in the cupboard first, but of course there arent any clean glasses left. I grab one off the bench and rinse it out, then pour
him a glass of water. When I hand it to him my hand is shaking. I clean another glass for myself and fill it carefully, just so I can face the wall.
Then he steps forward and places his glass upside down in the sink, putting his hand on my shoulder.
U m its just in here, I tell him, moving away. In my bedroom, I switch the light on, then turn it off again, stepping quickly across the clothes
strewn over the floor to turn on the reading lamp by the bed instead. He turns off the living room light and a moment later hes there in the room
with me.
I turn to face him. I want to apologise for being so awkward, for handling this so badly, but I cant even speak. He must be regretting this
already.
I realise Im still holding my water, like its a cocktail and this is some sort of party. Some party.
Youre right. He means the water. I should take my time. Drink it.
So I do. And I sit down on the bed because I dont know what else to do. And he might be looking at me, or he might be wondering how one
person could be so messy I dont know because Im staring at the floor.
Finished with that? He takes my empty glass and puts it down on the bedside table. Then he kneels on the floor in front of me, considering me
with his grey eyes. So.
Its unbearable, like being X-rayed. My face flushes. Dont look at me.
Shh, okay.
He pushes me backwards so Im lying flat, my legs hanging off the edge of the bed. I feel his fingers undoing my jeans, tugging them down, and I
raise my hips like an obedient child, heart thudding, eyes squeezed shut. Theres a rustle of denim as he casts my jeans aside.
Now Im just in my underpants, my bra and T-shirt, arms crossed over my chest. He rubs his palms over my thighs and I stare at the ceiling.
Surely he must think Im a freak? Lying here frozen, unable to move.
His hands slide up my thighs and take hold of my underpants, tugging them down. I raise my hips again, shut my eyes tight. Its agony, this. I
want to sob because Im so scared.
I feel his breath and a wave of goose bumps ripples over me. Then he starts kissing the insides of my thighs, imprinting his mouth on my skin,
burning me like a brand. He passes over my pubic mound, blowing on it gently, then I feel his mouth coming to rest on me and Im thinking that
Im glad Ive showered tonight, so there can be little smell down there. Im so uptight its not funny.
It takes an eternity, but finally Ive got the courage to touch his fine sandy hair. For a moment he stops what hes doing and looks up at me and
Ive never felt more exposed.
I fake it. I make the noises women are supposed to make not loud enough for anybody else to hear, but I do them. I think itll be okay; itll be
enough. But he doesnt stop, he just keeps going as though he knows its bullshit.
And finally I let go, letting my legs stiffen and relax in a rhythm I never thought Id share with anyone else. The feelings peak and I crest for so
long, legs straining, hands clutching the doona, holding my breath, tensing to reach it, my whole body aching like a bubble that wants to burst. And
then it breaks and I feel the falling away.
When its finished, I open my eyes and crane my neck to see him. Hes kissing me again, all along my thighs, and I touch the top of his head
gently. His fingers are still inside me and he wiggles them, flashing me a glance. Im embarrassed but I dont look away.
He gets to his feet, swaying a little, and I sit up, not sure what to do, feeling a bit self-conscious in my half dressed state.
Take your shirt off, he tells me. So I pull my shirt over my head, then I unclasp my bra, shrugging it off too. He reaches for my hands, guiding
them to his waist and I unbutton his jeans, tugging them down his legs. He steps out of them, pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it on the
floor with his hair all mussed up. I move back on the bed and lie down, waiting, watching him.
Everything happens fast, a runaway train I dont want to stop. Hes laying down on me, biting my shoulder as he does it, and the weight of him
is a relief. He starts kissing me and I can faintly taste the salt of myself, but it doesnt taste ugly or awful. I pull at his underpants and he helps me
get them off. Then hes leaning across, heavy on my chest, reaching down to his jeans on the floor. He gets out his wallet and he takes out a
condom, chucking the wallet back onto the floor, ripping the foil packet open with his teeth. He lies on his side and starts to put it on, but I reach
down wanting to do it and his penis throbs.
I pull him on top of me, then arch up, wanting the push, and when it happens its so sharp the world goes somewhere else. When he comes, he
groans like hes hurt.
Later, after hes peeled the condom off, wrapped it in tissues from the box beside my bed and put it in the bathroom bin, he climbs back into
bed naked and pulls me over to him so my heads resting on his shoulder.
Before he turns off the light, he says, You all right?
Yes. I clear my throat. Are you?
He kisses me on the forehead.

When I wake up, the grey light of dawn is in the room and were overheating and sweaty. Our skin peels apart like weve been melted together.

25
going for an early
I doze for a while. When I wake up again I lift my head up to see his face. His eyes open and I freeze, feeling caught out, but then his eyelids
flutter closed and I hear his steady breathing. Is he awake or asleep? What time is it?
I need to pee. The beds pushed up against the corner of the room and Im on the wall side, so I wiggle down to the end, trying to be as quiet as
possible. Im still naked. Hes still naked. My toes find the carpet and I tiptoe quietly across the room, stopping to pull on a T-shirt and a pair of
shorts, barely breathing. While Im doing this, his eyes peel open, blink, focus on me.
Im just The bathroom.
He closes his eyes again. The digital clock beside my bed says its 5.47; weve probably only slept for four hours. Im dry-mouthed from the beer.
I close the sliding door of the ensuite as quietly as I can, then pat around for the light. I pull my shorts down and sit well forward on the toilet
seat, wanting to soften the noise because I know the pee is going to stream out of me and hes right there next door. It seems like Im peeing
forever. My face scrunches up. Oh, for Gods sake.
Then I wash my hands and face and drink a lot of water from the tap. As I pat my face dry with my towel, Im watching myself in the mirror. My
eyes look tired and swollen.
Before I go back out, I get a clean towel out of the cabinet.
Hes pulled his jeans on and is making the bed.
You dont have to do that, I say, surprised. Then I remember the towel, offering it to him. Here, if you want to wash or whatever.
Thanks. He goes into the ensuite, half closes the door and a second later I hear him pissing soundly.
I smooth out the doona as though I always make my bed and yesterday was an aberration. The toilet flushes and then I hear the tap running. I
push the bed back in against the wall and fix up the pillows.
When he comes out I turn to face him. Sorry, you could have kept sleeping if you wanted to. I didnt mean you had to get up.
I thought wed go for a surf. You keen?

He heads up to his car, telling me it takes a while to warm up and hell start it while hes waiting for me to get ready. Our newly repaired boards
are still in it. Im in a fluster. I spray deodorant on, clean my teeth and give my hair a quick brush. Then I pull on my bikini, board shorts and a
singlet.
Im just pulling my sliding door shut when I hear: Cookie?
Hannahs leaning out her lounge room window, her face all sleep creased, smiling down at me.
I wave up at her. Hey.
She continues to whisper. Did someone come home with you last night?
My face flushes and I nod.
She motions over her shoulder. Me too. Victor is here.
Oh.
Go vaginas.

Ryans fiddling with the radio, zipping through the stations.

Sorry I took so long, I say, plopping into the passenger seat.
He doesnt find anything he likes so he reaches across me and opens the glove box, and I look at the pale hairs covering his forearms and wish
hed do something to acknowledge that last night happened. He pulls out a tape and pushes it into the cassette player. The Sunnyboys which is
sort of funny given its classic surf music and were about to go for a surf. If I knew him better, Id pay him out.
He lowers the volume then leans over and kisses me. Once, twice, three times.
Then he runs his hand over my hair. Sorry, mate, Im not very good at mornings.

After our surf, when were back at the car and Ryans got a towel around his waist like a skirt, pulling his boardies and wet swimmers off
underneath, he says, So Im going away for a couple of days.
I say nothing, not sure if its a euphemism.
Im heading up to Queensland. He bows his legs and rubs himself with the towel. Theres a guy I know whos put in a good word for me at
one of the mines up there. Ive got a job interview. The moneys good and they give you two weeks on, one week off. I figure its worth a shot.
Like Plan B? My voice sounds normal but inside me things are clenching tight. Whatd you expect? Hes had you now.
Thats the one. The straight and narrow. He starts pulling a pair of shorts on underneath the towel. The interviews supposed to be pretty fullon, medical tests and all that. Theyre going to overlook my criminal record, but if Ive got epilepsy forget it.
Thats good for you, then. U nless youve got epilepsy.
That knocks a grin out of him, then he turns serious.
Its out in the middle of nowhere, about a hundred ks west of Mackay, so I dunno if theres any mobile coverage. Should be payphones but I
might be tied up. What Im trying to say is that I mightnt be able to call you. If I cant, Ill be back Thursday. Ill give you a buzz then.

Okay. I hide my smile in my towel, pretending to dry my hair.

26
deeper

Tuesday, 5.22 p.m.

Hey, Carly, its me. Guess youre at work should have checked when you were working this week. Things are good up here. Weird set up, eh. Had the medical today. Ill try and give you
another call tomorrow night mobiles working as you can see. But yeah. Its Ryan, by the way.

Wednesday, 9.53 p.m.

Yeah, so its me again. Not having much luck getting you. Im sleeping in a dog box thats what they call a donga. Its a demountable, like the classrooms at public schools. Six dongas to a
block, thats your toilets and showers. Like living in a caravan park or something. Bet youre fascinated by all that. So yeah Ill talk to you later. Bye, mate.

He takes a really long time to answer the phone and when he does his voice sounds scratchy. Yep? Hello?
Its me.
Youre kidding. How are you, mate? His voice changes during the course of the sentence, like hes trying to force himself to sound more awake.
Sorry, were you asleep?
Yeah no, doesnt matter.
You sound really tired your voice.
Mate, Im buggered.
Im sorry. I didnt get your message until after work, and because I missed your other call too, well, I didnt want you to think I didnt want
him to think I was ignoring his calls. I just felt rude, thats all.
Dont worry about it. Sorry I couldnt ring earlier. Theyve been keeping me busy all day long. Nights are the only chance Ive had to call you.
We both sound so formal, like we dont really know each other, which I guess we dont. This is so hard. Calling him, laying myself open like
this. What if its a mistake?
He clears his throat. Hang on a sec, Ill ring you back.
He cuts the line. A second later my phone rings.
Thats better, he says.
Whats better?
Didnt want you calling.
Why?
Because if I get this job Ill be earning heaps out here, mate. Not going to hurt to spend some of it on phone calls.
Dont be silly.
Nah. Yeah, so whatve you been up to? Hows the surf? he asks.
Big. Theres a southeast swell around at the moment.
Good?
Okay. Its breaking further over, Carparks is working. I wasnt out there for long today because my leg rope broke and I had to swim in.
Bummer. Have you got another one?
No, Ill have to buy one tomorrow.
Go to Pumplines, you know, in Collaroy. Ask for a guy called Kratzy. Tell him you know me and hell give you one for free.
Well, theres no way Im just going to march into a surf shop and start throwing my weight around, but I dont tell Ryan that. How come?
He owes me a favour.
How come so many people owe you favours?
Logistics.
Oh.
Silence stretches between us and I search for something to fill it up with before it gaps too much. Ive got the phone pressed to my ear so tightly
I can hear the faint sound of my own pulse, a rasping prr-ump prr-ump prr-ump. I think of Ryan somewhere in central Queensland, in a
donga, lying on his bed, holding onto his phone. Is he pressing it tightly against his ear, too?
Whats it like out there? I ask.
Mate, not worth wasting my breath over. No, its all right. Pretty full on, though. Im so tired its not funny. He yawns.
You sure you dont want me to
Carly, I want you to stay on that phone.
Were both quiet for a while.
I wish I was there, mate.
Do you? My voice is tentative, balanced on something sharp.
Aw yeah, mate. Look, Im not good on the phone, but know that, all right?
Okay.
So just I dont know, relax about me.
Okay. I take a catchy little breath.

Im hanging to see you tomorrow. What time are you working?

Not til the afternoon. When do you get in?
Ten oclock in the morning.
Do you want me to pick you up?

When I see him standing there on the edge of the kerb I get a rush of nerves. I leave the motor running and pop the hatch, suddenly glad that well
be greeting each other inside a vehicle instead of the terminal where theres too much space.
He throws his bag in the back of the car with a thud. Times not a steady thing because it slows down before he opens his door. Im not good
with suspense. I would like to just drive off to be honest, take my shaky-shakiness somewhere else. Find the back exit.
Then hes getting into the seat beside me, the Laser shifting under his weight.
Howre you goin? He looks me over, his eyes unreadable, the way they used to look.
Oh. Youve made a mistake. My face is red, I know it.
But then he flicks his head back in the way that means give me a kiss. I lean across and peck his mouth, but he slides his hand through my hair
and makes me give him another one, and this time its longer, with more questions asked.
Well, its good to see you, mate, I can tell you that much.
I smile at him, feeling shy. I know its not because hes got a lift home.
On the drive back, which takes forever because traffic is a total nightmare, he tells me about the mine. He seems so big, so male, squashed in the
Laser. I can imagine Ryan working in a mine, even though I cant see his physical surroundings when I do it. I see him parked in a bunch of
sweating men wearing big boots, reflective vests and construction hats, not saying too much and earning their respect for it; just like I can see him
sitting deep in the water on his board, the crows lying belly down around him, talking at him.
Do you think youll get the job? I ask.
Yeah, probably. Theyre chewing through workers up there. The coal industrys booming. They said they wouldnt drag it out, theyd give me a
ring as soon as they know.
Thats good.
Plenty of jobs going, if you wanted one.
All those men, away from civilisation. Probably not for me.
Yeah, fair enough. Whats the surf like?
I sigh. Flat. Flat as a piece of paper. Im going insane.
No waves, eh?
No.
Well, well just have to find something else to do.
I keep my eyes on the road but my face flushes.
His tone is casual. We can go for a swim.
Confused, I glance at him, and he laughs. He squeezes my thigh hard.
Ive had you in my head for three days, mate. All I want to do is get you in a room alone. He leaves his hand on my thigh. We should, though.
Later.
What?
Go for a swim.
I wrinkle my nose up. A swim?
Yeah, why? What time are you at work?
Four-thirty. I dont know, I never really think about swimming.
How flats flat then? Is there anything surfable at all?
Flatter than the lagoon.
Yesterday I listened to Reggae Ellisss surf report on the radio in disbelief, suspecting he was exaggerating. I drove down to do a surf check
myself, thinking that there had to be something, anything, even a ripple. But Reggae was right. The ocean was perfectly still, beautiful in green and
blue, mocking me.
You know whats good about it being flat? Ryan asks.
Is this another sex joke?
No. You can check out the banks.
What do you mean?
Put on goggles, swim over them. See how the bottom changes. Its like seeing the break naked.
I stare across at him, my mouth open.
He gives a start. That wasnt meant to be a sex joke. Thats just what came out.
That is so corny. But Im smiling while I say it.

His mobile rings when were crossing the Spit Bridge. It must be someone from the mine, because Ryan says, Thats great, mate. Thanks for that.
Good news. And, Yeah, I can do next week.
My heads scattered from the noise and traffic of the city. Ive been driving for two and a half hours all up. It takes less time than that to get out
of Sydney and go to the Central Coast. I realise that in the whole time Ive been back here, this is the first time Ive gone south of the Spit Bridge.
Why you would want to live over there, I do not know. Even when I lived in Surry Hills Id come north to surf.
Ryan says, Yeah, okay. I can do that. Yeah. Monday. Qantas. Hang on for a sec. To me, he hisses, You got a pen?
I pat around in the pocket on the inside of my door and hand him a biro. Ive got a funny feeling listening to Ryan sorting out the details, like

I pat around in the pocket on the inside of my door and hand him a biro. Ive got a funny feeling listening to Ryan sorting out the details, like
Im going to be left behind.
Ryans got my glove box open. He pulls the Lasers manual out and opens the front page, scratching the biro on it to get ink flowing.
Yeah okay, mate, right now. Shoot. He pauses then says, Q F five five nine, yeah, terminal three. Okay.
He winds up the conversation and turns his mobile off.
So you got the job?
Yeah.
Thats good.
I dont know. It is and it isnt.
What do you mean?
Im lazy, mate, and I wont get to surf for two weeks.
Oh.
So what do you reckon?
I couldnt be away from the ocean that long.
No, do you think youll remember who I am in a couple of weeks time?
I grin. Nuh.
He squeezes my thigh again.
And later, when were almost at his place, crossing the pelican bridge, he says, You know what we should do? On one of my breaks we should
head up to Laurieton. Its great up there, surfs good at Bonny Hills, good fishing. You ever been there?
When we reach his house he tells me to park in the driveway.
Wheres your car?
Shanes probably taken it.
Reliefs sweet.

In his room, Ryans hands grip my hips, moving me up and down on top of him. His eyes squeeze shut and his breathing gets louder. I break the
rhythm, lifting slightly, not knowing when I learned to tease, and he arches up, whispering, Aw, come on.

There is no one else down there. The whole world is ours. The beach is still, quiet and perfect under a blue sky that curves around it like a dome.
Ryan touches the bottom and pulls his goggles off. I float behind him, holding his shoulders, so that as he walks through the water Im pulled
along like a cape. He stops and twists around, breaking my grip, then pulls me up against him and I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling the rub
of his board shorts, arms resting on his shoulders.
He pulls back to see my face, scrunching the skin under his chin. You look like a little kid.
I remember a photograph of me with goggles on, taken when I was eleven, waist deep in Auntie Yvonnes pool: belly like a poisoned pup, hair
flat to my head, ears pushed forward. I pull the goggles off and he grins.
Shut up, Ryan. You should see the marks on your face.
Mate, dont go to work. Just this once, I promise. Dont go.
And suddenly, I desperately want to stay with him. What would we do?
I dont know. Have a few beers, play some pool, take it easy. I dunno about Shane, but we can hang around mine if you want. Or have you
ever been to the Collaroy Services Club?
No.
Well, lets go there for tea or something.
Okay. Suddenly fierce, I hug him tight, tight, tighter, and squash my mouth up against his ear. I dont care what we do.

I ring work later, back at Ryans place. Were lying on the bed and there are damp patches on the pillows from our hair. Our wet swimmers and
towels are clumped on the floor. Ryans no Hannah, but his room is really tidy the rest of the house looks like a place where two guys live.
Theres a desk with manila folders stacked in in-trays and a study chair parked in front of it. A clothes stand runs along one wall displaying shirts
and jeans hung neatly on hangers. On the floor, just inside the door, theres a stereo and speakers, and two tall CD towers. His bed has a navy blue
doona cover, which I like for some reason. And theres a stack of surfing magazines on the floor beside his bed, Tracks on the top no girlie mags,
which is good.
While I wait for Emilio to come to the phone, I scrabble my fingers in Ryans pubic hair and they brush against his penis, which is spent and soft,
vulnerable.
I should feel guilty throwing a sickie, but I dont. Ryans planing his hand up my thigh, watching it intently like a kid with a toy car.
Emilio? Its Carly
Hi Carly, how are you?
Good well, not so good. Im really sorry, but Glenda thats the lady I look after shes not very well today.
Oh, right. So youll be in late?
Ryan drives his hand up over my pubic hair and then onto my stomach. He presses harder, doing a victory lap around my belly button.
Ah no. Thats I dont think Im going to make it in there, realistically. Shes pretty bad. Can you ask Stu to cover for me?
Emilio sighs. Hes not being very gracious about Glendas predicament. Ill see what I can do.
Thanks, Emilio. Ill see you tomorrow.
When I hang up, Ryan says, Who the hell is Glenda?

I lie all the time. I told you that at Dee Why.

He shifts up onto his elbow. So it was all right?
Yep.
Good.
He starts to stroke me with his fingertips, running them over my belly and along my sides.
I flinch. Tickles.
Just relax.
I give a shiver and try, making myself breathe. And hes right, I get used to it and like it. He strokes my shoulder, then lifts my arm up over my
head and runs his fingers all the way down the inside of it to my armpit.
Sorry, Im sweaty.
He leans forward and licks me there. I like you sweaty.
When hes stroking the inside of my palm, I feel a heaviness overcome me. So relaxed. Couldnt move if I wanted to. He strokes my eyes shut,
then traces my eyebrows.
Youre beautiful. Whispered.
He runs his finger over my lips, which are just slightly apart, and along my jawline.
Then he gently circles my breasts and brushes his fingers over my nipples so they get hard. He cups his hand around one of them, lifting it
gently.
I tense, opening my eyes. Dont.
Shh.
He starts on my nipples again, little brushing strokes.
I shift away abruptly, bringing my arms up across my chest. I said, dont!
He frowns. All right, mate. Settle down.
I reach down and pull the top sheet up over me.

When we get to the Services Club things between us are still out of sync, a film that hasnt been dubbed properly. We talk in short sentences. Ryans
face is closed off and shitty, and when he asks me questions his eyes are hard. I dont bother much with the answers because I know Im just
making noise.
Were sitting on the balcony. A guy is fishing off the old waste pipe that runs into the ocean, the sands golden in the late afternoon light, and the
oceans still dead flat.
Ryan stands up abruptly, scraping his plastic chair on the wooden decking. I look up at him, half-expecting him to tell me that hes going home
because Im not worth the effort, its just all too hard.
Back in a sec.
He returns with two beers, puts them down on the table without looking at me and sits down heavily.
We all right here or what?
When I dont answer, he says, Did I do something? Is it work? You worried because you should be there? Your boss give you a hard time or
something?
I shake my head, staring at the guy fishing. I can hear Ryan suck air through his teeth.
Okay so if its not work
Its not you.
He mimics me. Its not you, its me.
Dont. I look over and see how blotchy his face is. Ryan, its okay if you dont want to do this. Thats okay. Its cool.
Im here, arent I?
He exhales, then leans forward, reaching under the table to hold my knee. I didnt mean it like that. I want to be here. You know what I kept
thinking about while I was away? When we went for a surf the morning after how I felt coming back up the beach with you afterwards. I was
just thinking, How good is this?
Really?
He nods. He brings his chair around beside me so were both looking at the water and closer together. Were quiet for a while.
Ryan, if its not you, does it matter what it is I mean, to you?
He looks sideways at me, grey eyes trying to read. I couldnt give a shit, mate. As long as youre okay and all that. Everybodys got something.
I wonder if thats true, if hed still want me knowing whod been there before him and what they did.

27
her

Thursday, 8.26 p.m.

Theyve got me learning the trucks. If I get my ticket, Ill be driving them. Induction was boring as shit, back to school, learning what signs mean. Yeah, so, its Ryan by the way. I know youre
at work, but I just thought Id call anyway. Theyre going to put me on earlys which will be a laugh, getting up at four in the morning. So, yeah Shifts are twelve hours, six to six. Ill ring
you tomorrow night, late, after youve finished work. Or ring me back tonight if you want dont worry about waking me up.

Im waiting for him to come, pacing around my place, straightening the doona on the bed, checking the fridge because I bought beer, bread, butter,
orange juice, vegemite, honey, eggs, bacon all these things so it would be nice when he came. I feel like Im a soft drink, shaken while still
capped, fizzing up, about to explode, waiting, waiting, waiting. Now hes on his way back times stopped and I know Im going to be locked in this
moment forever.
The whole time hes been away Ive been longing for him. Longings unbearable, something that cant be endured but has to be. Its the worst of
all; I didnt know that. Its sweet and it kills at the same time, an ache eating away at your heart so that air gets in and you dont know if what you
feel is pain or pleasure.
He rings me from the cab to say hell be late his plane was delayed by twenty minutes and the traffics bad getting through the city. Its like a
marathon this is, because hes going to have an accident or something and Ill never get to see him. I could send myself mad right now. I have a
cigarette, which I suck back quickly, every intake of breath nicotine-laced, because Im thinking Ill need all the time I can take to get rid of the
smell again. I wash my hands four times and brush my teeth twice and spray on more deodorant. I put some make-up on, but it looks silly so I
wash it off. And then I eat some toast, to make sure the smoking smells gone. And then I clean my teeth again.
I think Im exhausted in the end. Thats why I sit down out on the deck because inside the walls are too tight and I just wait for him to come.

I dont hear the cab pull up, but when the security light comes on I hear him walking down the side of the house. I get up then and hover at the
bottom of the steps. Hes carrying a black-and-yellow sports bag over his shoulder. I notice his boots straight away Blundstone steel caps that have
got to be mine issued. Hes wearing jeans and a navy blue shirt, which looks nice and soft. When he sees me he gives me a grin, but I can see how
tired he is.
Howre you goin? Thought I was never going to get here. Frigging traffic.
He reaches the bottom of the steps, puts his bag down and theres an awkward moment when we look at each other. His grey eyes are
questioning and I can see that hes nervous too. Then we hug, and the feel of him, being wrapped up in his solidness, makes me feel small and
humble and grateful. It makes me feel safe.
We stay like that for maybe two minutes. I can hear him breathing. Before I pull back I hug him as tightly as I can so he knows I dont want to
let go.
He takes his boots off on the deck and leaves them next to the Rossi boots I wear to work. Then he follows me in through the glass sliding doors
and stands there for a second in his thick socks, holding his bag, just taking it all in.
Then he grins. Cleaned up for me?
See that cupboard there? Dont open it.

The next morning, I feel like I havent even slept when I hear him say, Carly? Carly, wake up.
I squint at him. What?
Come on, lets get down there.
I rub my eyes, trying to get them open. What time is it?
Five. Lets go for an early.
I thought you werent a morning person.
Work Im trained now. Ive only got a couple of days to surf. I want to get down there.

Were down there by twenty past five, standing side by side on the lookout seat, checking it. That right there shows how weird life is I can
remember the first time I saw him, how he was standing on the lookout seat looking all shut off and cold. I wonder what I would have thought if
someone had told me how important he was going to be to me.
Maybe because Im half asleep Im not so enthusiastic at first, but then I really see whats happening. Holy shit.
You said it, mate.
The surf is pumping. Its like a welcome back present for Ryan. Glassy, grey and four-foot, coming straight from the east. The sun isnt over the
horizon yet, theres hardly anybody else out and the waters thick like mercury. Perfect conditions.
Once were out there we dont talk to each other were both focused on getting waves. I watch Ryan take off on a left and see the way he
powers through his turns, burying his rail deep in the face. Hes a goofy footer. I wonder if he was born a goofy footer or made that way this
breaks known for its left.
At one point Im paddling hard for a left, really pulling to get on the thing because its good, its going to be so good, and I hear him shout, Go

At one point Im paddling hard for a left, really pulling to get on the thing because its good, its going to be so good, and I hear him shout, Go
it, Carly!
More people arrive and soon theres a clump of surfers in the water. When Ryan bumps into me in the middle of the arrowhead he looks
surprised for a second and I feel the same way. Its like, Oh hello, Id forgotten you were here.
He plants himself on his board, giving me his Mr Cool act. Gettin a few?
Yep.
Any good?
I grin. Better than sex.
He raises an eyebrow. Is that right?
Theres a mound of swell rolling towards us and I start to paddle for it. He snakes me and takes it.
Oi!
I drop in on him the first chance I get.
Round three. Theres one coming on the inside and I start paddling for it. He starts for it too, telling me, Its mine, sunshine.
Get stuffed.
As I feel the surge take my board, he grins across at me. Split it?
So we split the peak, he goes left and I go right, and I know, like me, hes thinking, How good is this?

After our surf we drop into his place. I park the Laser in the driveway behind his Commodore and wait there while he goes up the stairs and steps
over all those shoes on the landing. The house looks deserted. Ryan unlocks the front door and goes inside leaving it wide open. He wants to leave
some rent money for Shane.
My mobile starts ringing and I hunt around, finding it in the glove box. Its Mum. I havent answered a call from her for weeks. After a seconds
hesitation, I answer.
Youre up nice and early. She sounds pleased, as though this is evidence there might be hope for me yet. Off to work soon?
No, Ive been for a surf. And I sound bright, almost cheerful. I cant help it.
Oh, yes. You always did like that, didnt you?
I roll my eyes. Its harmless, though. She never did get the surfing thing.
Your brothers moved into his unit.
Thats good.
Yes. And hes found a flatmate. This nice boy from Gos-ford Matthew, his name is. Keith said he works for
She gives me the blow by blow on all that is happening in Keiths world. Then in my fathers and her world, and in the world of aunties and
uncles and cousins the full report. She sounds quite chirpy today. As though nothing is wrong at all and I just happen to be away from home. My
mother is resilient. Well, no, thats not quite it. She lives on the surface. In the world of routine. Thats what Dad and her have in common apart
from the fact that they both think he knows best they like their routine.
But its not like Im bitter, thinking all this. Its just the way it is, the way they are. Today I can see them with some distance and the hurt shrinks
a bit. Theyre not going to change. I can even feel some sympathy for them. Things must be a lot easier for them now Im not there. Less disruption.
They can focus on getting more things done.
So how are things with you? she asks, warily pleasant.
Things are good, Mum. So good itd scare me if I thought about it. This guy called Ryan seems to like me for some reason and I like him. Hes
just out of jail, actually, used to be a drug dealer.
I laugh. Things are good, Mum. Ryan appears in the doorway, carrying an armful of clothes. But sorry, Ive got to go. Ill speak to you soon,
okay? I love you. Bye.

I switch my mobile off and stow it back in the glove box. Ryan tosses the clothes onto the backseat. When he gets into the car the Laser shifts with
his weight.
I look at him. Was Shane there?
Yeah.
Did he say anything?
Like what?
About I thought he might give you a hard time for staying at my place.
Ryan shrugs, looking puzzled. None of his business. Im still paying my share of the rent.
Are you worried sometimes that he mightnt pay his? I mean because of the drugs. He might use the money for them instead.
Ryan laughs in a way I havent heard before. Nah. He wouldnt do that.
I dont ask any questions but I think its got something to do with logistics. There are parts to Ryan I dont know, but they dont matter to me.

We make bacon and eggs back at my place. Im hopeless, I dont know why but Im all over the shop, and in the end Ryan pushes me away from
the stovetop.
Jesus, Carly, what are you doing to those eggs? Let me. I thought you were supposed to be a cook.
I never said I was a good one.
He takes the spatula and scoops out the eggs, which are fried to buggery and crispy around the edges. Lets start again. He throws them in the
bin.
Fussy.
The hard bits make you burp for ages. Cant be good for you, that. How do you want yours?

However.
I sit up on the bench, watching him clean the pan with detergent and a scourer. Then he starts again, this time with the bacon, which is where I
should have started. He puts the bacon in the pan while its cold so by the time its hot the bacon has released its fat.
While its cooking, Ryan looks through my cupboards. Youve only got one pan?
I sound surly and defensive. I dont know. The place came furnished but I havent really cooked since Ive been here.
He laughs. When the bacons done, he puts it on a plate and leaves it in the oven to keep it warm.
Then he cracks eggs into the pan, cooking them in the bacon fat. Here, you make the toast, Cook.
So I do.
You know something about you? he says. Youre impatient.
No shit, Sherlock.
We eat out on the deck. Im still in my bikini and Ryans in a pair of shorts. Hannahs gone to work and Im relaxed because no ones going to
come and bother us. Its a beautiful morning, the sun feels good. Im sitting in a puddle of it and Ryans sitting next to me, in the strip of shade
from the bamboo.
He finishes eating and pushes his plate away. I want to talk to you about something. Ive been thinking about this job
Yeah?
I got my ticket for driving. The moneys really good. Really good. The works hard, but Ill get used to it. Its sort of like jail in a way theres
a real routine to everything. Like when youre out there, you work, then you eat, shower, sleep and go to bed early. Everythings geared towards
making sure you can perform your shift. Anyway, Ive been thinking that if I stick with it for a couple of years I can set myself up. Save hard, watch
the expenses dont spend too much time in the wet mess.
Whats that?
Where they drink after work. The wettie.
Thats funny to me: mining must have its own language in the same way surfing does. In surfing, a wettie is a wetsuit. In mining, its a place you
wet your throat.
Put the money to work, buy a couple of units, get people in em renting, paying off the mortgages for me. Property prices go up, I make a profit
on one of them, sell it and use the cash to help clear the others. By the time I get out, Ill have an income stream.
Wow. Im in awe if you want to know the truth. It seems so big picture, so I dont know like Ryans completely got his shit together.
Yeah, its a long way off, but that would be the plan. Because I dont want to go through life working a shitty job. Im happy to work like a dog
short term if it means I get the long term thing right.
So you can surf all you want then.
He raises his sandy eyebrows. Yeah. And its two weeks on, one week off, so I get to surf, you know, a third of the time, a third of the year
better than a regular job. Then in breaks, we can go places if you want. Like Laurieton, or Crescent Head, or wherever. Do a few trips.
I nod, suddenly shy. Its all so big picture.
Theres a bunch of rainbow lorikeets in one of the eucalypts down at the bottom of the garden making a racket.
Noisy little shits, arent they? Ryan clears his throat. I just wanted to see what you thought about it, but. Because thats important.
I think itd be good.
He gives me a look, making sure I understand why hes asking me. All right then.
Later, I ask him what he wants to do. I keep thinking that Ive got to go to work at four-thirty.
He stretches and lies out flat on the deck. Mate, Im buggered. Im happy to do nothing all day. Just hang around with you, if thats okay. I
mean, yell out if youre sick of me taking up space.
No, no. Thats No, stay.
I roll over onto my belly and a little while later I feel Ryan scratching something over my legs and bum. Not hard, just sort of tickling-scratching.
It feels good. I think it must be a twig or something, but when I turn over I see the grin he gives me and the way his hand goes behind his back.
Whatve you done?
Nothin, mate. Youre paranoid.
I stand up and twist around, seeing the pen marks all over my legs. Very funny.
I lie down again, resting my head on his stomach, and I tell him about Danny surfing with black ink all over his face.
I think I know the kid you mean. Hes all right, Ryan says.
How come Shane has so many tattoos? I ask.
He shifts and his stomach pushes my head up for a second. Dunno, mate. Its just a thing he likes to do. He reckons its relaxing getting a tatt.
How come you dont have a tattoo?
Cant see the point.
If you had one, what would it be?
Dunno. You?
I think about it for a long time and finally concede defeat. I dont know, but not a butterfly.
Later, when Im going inside, Ryan calls me back.
What?
Come here.
I want a drink.
No, come here.
I go over to him. Hes still lying on his back.
Sit down for a sec. He pats the deck beside him with his hand. I sigh loudly and sit down with a thump. He takes my right hand and places it
palm down on his chest. Then he traces around it with the pen, craning his neck to see, giving himself double chins.
What are you doing?
He shifts my hand away and starts scratching out letters on his skin. I worked out a tattoo if I had one.

I look at what hes done. Hes got the outline of my hand over his heart and in it hes written, Her.
I want to tell him that hes blown me away, but I think he knows.

28
trust
From there, things fall into a pattern. Whenever Ryan comes back its great, then when he goes back to work its awful. Time ticks by between
long, aching phone calls. Weve got rules for when hes away. If hes short and terse on the phone I have to know that its nothing to do with me.
Its the situation: long shifts, being away from me, not being able to surf. And if we fight on the phone I cant just hang up. We have to sort it out
that night because leaving an argument to fester is too cruel when youre away from each other.
Some phone calls he doesnt say much and I know hes called just to hear my voice. Thats all he wants to hear me tell him about my day,
what the surfs like, what works like. And thats humbling, knowing that your voice can mean so much to another person. I know it helps him if I
sound cheerful, and its not good for him if I sound down. And I try not to make things hard for him by telling him I wish he was with me.
Georgina asked me about it once, about being in a quasi long-distance relationship. She said, Thats crazy, I dont know how you do it. And I
looked at her thinking she was crazy, because its not like you get to pick. You dont get to choose who you want to be with.
Danny asks more questions about the situation than anybody. Weve started meeting up for an early on the Saturdays when Ryan isnt around.
We always line it up the night before, when we work together. He says that if he knows hes got to meet someone he gets up. If its just him, he
turns the alarm off and goes back to sleep.
Danny is fascinated by the finer details of whats going on between Ryan and me.
Whens Rhino back?
Next Monday, I already told you that.
How long is he back for?
A week.
Then he goes back there for two weeks?
Yeah. You know this.
What do they call it again? You know the flying thing.
Fifo. Fly in, fly out.
Do you guys talk on the phone a lot?
Yeah. He rings when I finish work. But not every night because hes usually on day shift and he needs his sleep.
Do you guys have phone sex and stuff?
Jesus Christ, Danny.

Saturday night, Ryans second last night. I meet him out after I finish work. I didnt want to. Hes having drinks with some guy, Dean, who used to
be a local but whos since moved away, and I dont like meeting new men. But Ryan tells me that Deans a good mate, even though he doesnt see
him much anymore, and that hed like him to meet me because Im important. Well, Ive never been that before important so I say yes.
After work I get changed into jeans and a top and I fuss around for too long with my hair, nervous all of a sudden because I think this Dean
mightnt think Im good enough for Ryan. Not good-looking enough, or with big enough tits, or whatever it is that men think. And underneath all
that is the old worry I get when Im about to meet a man, the worry that I might already know his voice. But then I bury that because I dont want
to think about that stuff any more.
I think Deans going to be awful, like that Mick guy at Dee Why, or worse, like Shane, but hes not.
Hes just normal.
By the time I get to The Steyne they went there so I wouldnt have to go far to meet up with them and find them in the roof bar, theyre both
pissed. But Deans still nice and he talks to me, not around me, and when he asks me questions theres nothing in his eyes that shouldnt be there.
Hes tall and gangly with curly dark hair and gentle brown eyes, and hes wearing a polo shirt and jeans, both of which have been ironed.
Definitely not the hardcore surf maniac I was expecting.
Ryan tells me you surf, Carly, he says.
I nod. You do too, dont you?
Oh, yeah, now and then. Not as much as Id like. Weve got a little boy, so he keeps me busy on the weekends. But its worth it. Changes your
life, hey.
Im surprised by that. I didnt think hed be part of a we, have a child. He takes a sip of his beer and I spot the gold wedding band on his finger.
He sees me looking at it.
Ryan was my best man, he says.
Im surprised by that, too. I look at Ryan and he nods, looking slightly abashed.
Lost the rings, got in the shit for it. Deans wife, Sally, hasnt talked to me since.
Come on, shes talked to you, Dean says, laughing. Everybodys got to have at least one mate whos a black sheep. He winks at me. Thats why
shes dragged me up to the Central Coast, to get me away from this guy.
I tell him I grew up in Forresters. Where do you live?
Bateau Bay. We only bought up there because we couldnt afford anything down here. But Sal loves the place. So whatever makes her happy,
eh?
And I can see that if shes happy, hes happy. I just didnt expect Ryan to have friends like this.
Dean asks Ryan, So lifes good for you, Ry? On the up since you got out?
And when he says it, you can see hes been worried for Ryan.

Im sitting on a bar stool and Ryans next to me, swaying a bit on his feet, in this really good mood.
He says, Yeah, mate. Lifes good. Got a job, got it together. He puts an arm around my shoulders. Met Carly.
My face burns red and I take a sip of beer.
But Dean just nods, looking serious. Thats good, mate. Thats important

Ryan and I get a taxi back to his place. My Lasers there: Ryan drove me to work in it and then went back to his place to get ready to meet Dean.
Shanes borrowed Ryans Commodore, its missing from the driveway and Im glad hes not home. I figure because its so late he probably wont be
back tonight.
Ryan sways on his feet as he struggles to unlock the front door. When he gets the door open, he gives it a hard push so that it smacks into the
wall, then reaches around for me. Come here, you.
We walk down the dark hallway together, bumping from wall to wall like a pinball. He switches the kitchen light on and squints at me like Im
smudged.
You want a drink of water or something? He runs his hand over my hair, staring down at me, his face much softer than it would be if he was
sober. Hey?
I can smell the beer on his breath and I like seeing him like this, drunk and gentle, his guard down. And heres the thing: Im drunk, too. I am
absolutely smashed. And though I drink, I havent been drunk for over two years. But tonight I knew I could get drunk because Im with Ryan and I
trust him. Yeah. I trust him.
And right then I want him, and for once theres nothing complicated about it. I kiss him fiercely. Then I reach for his belt and tug it undone,
watching his face change while I do it.

29
Shadows
I wake up so much drunker than when I went to sleep, not sure where I am, upside down in my own body, knowing somethings wrong because
theres light spilling in and I dont know the shape of this light, the way it cuts across the wall. Its not familiar to me; its not the light that comes
through my window when Im in my bed, when I know where I am. I lift my head to find out whats happening and when I look my heart stops
because theres the shape of a man standing in the doorway. Im naked and theres a man on the bed beside me, I can feel the mound of his body,
and I dont know whos in the doorway, but I know why hes here. Hes here for his turn.
The shadow steps forward holding up something dark and he throws it towards me and I shudder, but it falls short and lands on the floor with a
soft thud. Then he holds up something white with his other hand and my eyes are more awake now because I can see its my underpants. He
throws them at me and they land on my legs.
You left these in the kitchen.
And I scream. A raw howl of a noise that rips my throat and jolts the man beside me awake.
Carly? Aw, for shits sake, Shane, piss off!
Ryan climbs over me, switches the bedroom light on, grabs the towel hanging over the end of the clothes rack, wrapping it round his waist. Shh,
Carly, its all right. Hang on, Im just going to
Hes out the door, the house shaking with the thud of his steps. I roll off the bed and find my jeans on the floor where Shane threw them. Im
wobbly and have to sit, shaky-shaky hands cant drag them on fast enough, got to get covered up, because they might come back.
What the hell are you doing, Shane? Thats taking it too far. I tell you what, its not funny, mate, so you can wipe that grin off your face.
Out before they come back. Shirt on, stuff my underpants in my jeans pocket because I dont want Shane to get them. Wavy legs, my head
spins, and it makes it hard to think where my purse is, or the keys to my car. There, on the desk God, Ive got to get out of here, please help me,
please help me. Not again.
The back way, the back exit. I can hear something smash, Ryan shouting still.
Youre out, mate. I have had it with your shit. I dont need this anymore. Youre all over the friggin place and Im sick of it. Next week, you get
yourself sorted. Youre out.
The handle turns but the door wont open even though Im jerking it as hard as I can. Im not thinking properly because I can see then its
deadlocked and the keys sitting in the lock; my heads not clear. Theres a ramp down into the yard and I hurry around the side of the house.
Theres light coming out of a window and I pass it with my head down as though theyll see me if I look up. I can hear Ryans voice.
Im at my car now and Im too drunk to know at first that Im trying to unlock it with my house key. But then I get the right key and the door
opens. I remember to lock it after me, which is good because something thumps on the bonnet. Ryans there, thats his shape, his pale chest I can
see in the glow of the streetlight. I block out his shouting, Ive got to think and get this car started. Now, put it in first, thats good, work the clutch,
move off, dont panic, youre moving, youre getting away. Change gears, go a bit faster he might get his car. Change gears again. I think its the
end of the street so I start turning right, but everythings dark, I cant see. I remember lights; thats why its dark I havent turned the lights on.
But I dont get time to turn them on because then the crash happens.

30
after
Who was it? Ryan sits down and my bed dips with his weight. I dont turn away from the wall.
Carly?
Hes quiet, then, for so long I can almost believe hes gone and Im here by myself, which is what I want. Except I can hear him breathing, so I
know hes still there, wanting to know.

31
the trouble with you
Hey, Cookie, you want sugar? Hannahs legs stop directly in front of me.
I look up from the paper, blinking at her.
You want sugar in your tea?
I nod, but I dont know why shes asking. She knows I have two sugars. Hannah knows all the little things.
And milk, yes?
Yes, thanks.
She puts the tray shes carrying down on the deck and sits cross-legged in front of it. I watch her take the lid off the sugar bowl and measure out
two spoons of sugar into a cup.
Have you always had that tray? Every other time weve sat out here on a Saturday morning Hannahs brought things down from her place in
two trips.
No, I bought it from the Garden Street Bazaar. Especially for tea with Cookie.
That hurts for some reason. I look back down at the paper.
Hannah places my tea in front of me on the deck. I think shes going to be quiet then, but she stretches and says, Ah, this sunshine. Its good, eh?
I sigh.
Ah, come on! Its good for you. You needed to be out of bed. Ryan came around before. When you were pretending to be asleep.
I keep staring at the paper.
Hes very worried about you. It was in his eyes. He is kind, I think.
I dont answer.
He told me that you could use his car. But I said, Ah, dont worry about it. She can use mine.
What are you going to do for a car?
Ill get Victor to drive me. And if not Victor, then Gavin.
Whos Gavin?
Gavin, I work with.
You work with, or are working on?
A euphemism?
I dont know. You tell me.
Im working on Gavin.
Jesus Christ, Hannah. Shaking my head, I flap my paper.
But shes back to Ryan. He said to tell you that he has taken care of your car.
My car had been left where it was, crumpled into a tree. It wasnt something to report, that accident, given that it involved me and a tree and
neither of us was hurt and I was drunk out of my head when it happened.
He shouldnt have done that. Its not his problem, I say.
Ah, but what does it matter? He said he knows someone who owes him a favour. Theyll do it for free. A friend of his will beat it for you.
Panel.
Panel?
Its called panel beating.

I had to be near the break feeling all mixed up like this: sweet, sour, hurting and sad. The oceans flat as flat and it reflects the sky so perfectly you
could be upside down. Im glad theres no surf because theres no chance of seeing other people who surf, the ones who know me and Ryan and
know were together. If there was surf I couldnt surf anyway: my boards at his place.
Barefoot, I can feel the sunshine still trapped in the sand. There are a lot of people down on the beach tonight people eating fish and chips,
kids running around, lovers sitting side by side, loners like me. The sweep of the beach south to Collaroy is framed by lights. Its just beautiful and
it puts an ache in my throat.
Ive got a towel slung around my shoulders and I dump it down near the waters edge and then wade in. The water is cold at first, but after I
dive under the surface either it gets warmer or my blood gets colder because it feels like nothing at all.
On the beach not far from me is a redheaded boy. Hes watching over a toddler, who I see when he pulls his nappy down and kicks it off is a
little boy. The toddler gurgles and laughs up at the redheaded boy, then waddles off as fast as he can, and the redhead knows the game because he
crouches down and runs just fast enough to always be there behind him.
And Im struck by the redheads face. He looks so gentle and joyous, completely wrapped up in this moment with a little streaker. How can he
be so pure? How can he know such peace?

I park Hannahs Barina in the carport, noticing there are no lights on at her place. Gavin, or perhaps it was Victor, was coming to take her to the
movies tonight.
Its dark now, but the airs still warm, so I put my wet towel down on the deck and sit there in my bikini. Ive been there for maybe twenty

Its dark now, but the airs still warm, so I put my wet towel down on the deck and sit there in my bikini. Ive been there for maybe twenty
minutes two cigarettes worth of time when my mobile starts ringing inside the house. I let it ring, feeling my scalp prickle because its too late
for Emilio or Mum to be calling, so that just leaves Ryan.
I wont check for a message. Tomorrow hell be gone.
A short while later I hear the noise of someone wearing thongs walking down the side steps to my place. For a second I think about unlocking
the sliding door and hiding inside, but its too late for that. Im hoping its going to be Hannah, but she doesnt wear thongs. I get up and quickly
shove my cigarettes, matches and smoking jar into my wet tub, then throw myself back down on the towel.
Ryan appears around the corner of the house carrying my board. When he sees me there, sitting in the dark, he gives a start.
Whoa shit Hey. Howre you goin? Didnt expect you to be here. He glances around and sniffs and I wonder if he can smell cigarette smoke.
Wanted to drop this off for you before I leave tomorrow.
Oh. Thanks.
I tried calling.
I, um The phones inside and I didnt really hear it.
He does a slow nod, looking unimpressed. His sandy brown hair is soft and shaggy, like hes washed it recently, and hes freshly shaven. Hes
wearing a retro Crystal Cylinders shirt and a faded pair of jeans; I recognise them as the same pair he was wearing the day we went to Dee Why by
the tear across the left knee.
I pull my knees up to my chest and scratch my foot.
Sunbathing at night, eh?
I went for a swim and its a nice night so I shrug.
Where do you want this? He holds the board up.
Its fine just there. Thanks for dropping it off.
He lays the board down on its side, leaning it against the railing. Hes wrapped my leg rope neatly around the fins. Instead of leaving, he walks
across to the railing and stands there looking out, tapping his fingers. Pretty flat down there, eh?
Yep. God this is hell, please make him go.
So you feeling all right?
Pardon?
Nothing hurt or sore?
He means from the accident.
No. Everythings fine, thanks.
Everythings fine, thanks. Well thats good, Carly, Im glad everythings fine. His voice is hard and angry.
I stare at his back, the solidness of him standing there on my deck, and a hand twists my stomach.
Your neighbour Hannah did she tell you Id been over?
Yes.
You know about your car?
You didnt have to do
Dont start with that shit.
Something rustles in the bamboo but apart from that the night is quiet. Too quiet. And then I realise I cant hear the surf. There are no waves, its
flat.
He turns around, leaning back against the railing, sniffing again. So youre a smoker, eh?
No.
Okay, you dont smoke.
Hes dissecting me, looking utterly indifferent while he does it.
Can you remember what you said when I got you out of the car, Carly? Can you remember what you told me?
I freeze, feeling terrified because I cant remember. I dont know what Ive told him, how much he knows. The only thing I remember is him
asking me the question later when hed brought me back here. Who was it?
His voice softens. Carly, Im not going to You gotta know me a bit better than that by now.
I rub my face with both hands.
Do you want to talk about it? he asks.
About what?
About what happened to you.
What happened to me? Like Im some sort of freak?
He shakes his head. Mate, thats not where Im coming from, at all.
I cant look him in the eyes because then hell see it: my disgrace. Hes the first person to do this to me, to take the things I hide, and I think its
cruel, unbearable, like having my chest torn open.
Hes the first person to know.
I get up then, not sure if I want to be sick or punch something, or maybe I should ram my head into the wall, do it until I pass out so I can get
away from him. He shouldnt be doing this. Its not fair. I didnt want to know his details. I dont deserve this.
He takes a step towards me. Carly
I try the sliding door, but its locked. The keys are in the wet tub, over near the railing. I go over to it, aware that hes watching me, not saying
anything, and I hate the way hes just standing there.
Go away! I scream at him and its the start of a flood. Get out, Ryan, just get out. Leave me alone!
I tip the tub upside down, spilling its contents onto the deck: wax comb, wax, fin key, hair ties, hair comb, deodorant, spare towel, cigarettes,
matches and the glass jar with dead butts in it, which makes a loud clunk and rolls towards the edge of the deck. Ryan bends to stop it and places
it upright.
I scrabble through the mess of stuff from the wet tub, trying to find my keys. Happy now? I say, throwing the packet of cigarettes at him. Yes, I

I scrabble through the mess of stuff from the wet tub, trying to find my keys. Happy now? I say, throwing the packet of cigarettes at him. Yes, I
smoke sometimes. Congratulations, Ryan, now you know.
My keys arent there. Theyve got to be in my shorts then. I go to pick my shorts up off the deck, but Ryan grabs me by the shoulders.
Dont! Dont touch me. Just leave me alone.
Shh. Carly, settle down. Those eyes, seeing into me.
I dont want anything to do with you.
Dont push me away
Leave me alone! I give a big jerk backwards and he tightens his hands for a second to stop me keeling over then lets me go.
Straight away Im over at my towel, picking up my shorts, shaking them to feel whether the keys are there in the pocket.
Carly, I told you already it doesnt matter. Everybodys got something, its how you deal with it that counts. Im not here to hurt you, or rub your
face in it.
Oh really? It doesnt matter? Oh, thank you so much, Ryan. Its so big of you. Thank you for overlooking all my revoltingness. Youre a real
charity worker, you are.
Im crying, face all twisted up, snot and tears making the words bubble. Where the hell are my keys? I look about wildly, trying to find them.
Ryan stoops down and picks them up they were on the end of my towel. I go to snatch them from him but he closes his hand.
Carly, I want to talk to you, but I cant when youre like this.
Yeah? Thats because its just all too hard, isnt it, Ryan? Isnt that what you said? Its just all too fucking hard.
I never said that.
Yes, you did. On the phone, in the beginning, before you scored with me. Well, youve had me now. So good for you you scored, Rhino.
Aw now hang on a second He shakes his head, eyes slitted. Thats just bullshit, that is. Thats not how things are and you know it.
Is that what youre doing here tonight? Looking for a quickie? Two dry weeks ahead, better get one in with Carly before I go. Shell be up for
it.
Aw Jesus, Carly. Thats not He kicks the glass jar and it slams into the side of the house, but doesnt break. He looks at me, his face blotchy
and hands clenched. The trouble with you is that youre still letting whoever it was do it to you. Youve let him get inside you, so he can fuck you
from the inside out. So get rid of me then if thats what you want, but youre only letting him win.
I sit down slowly, my back against the brick wall, hugging my knees to my chest.
Ryans squatting down beside me, taking my hand and holding it in his. Tell me, Carly. Get it out. Tell me what happened.
Everything is so black inside my head. I dont even have to think about it. I just tell him, let him have all of it.
It was at the Gold Coast. Schoolies week. I was at a club with my friends and I lost them we were all drinking and I was off my head. I ended
up wandering around the Mall, looking for them, pissed off because I thought theyd ditched me. I started talking to this guy and he said he was
going to a party. He was really sunburned I remember that. I asked him if hed fallen asleep on the beach and he said it was from surfing. Thats
why I started talking to him, because he surfed, not for any other reason God, I was a virgin until that night.
I blink for a moment, not really believing that Im telling him all this, but then I just keep going. Im unravelling. And if I keep it up soon
therell be nothing left of me.
Anyway, he said I should come to this party with him. And I was pissed at my friends and I thought, you know, screw it. So I did. On the way
there I bought more stuff to drink because I was nervous about going to a party where I didnt know anybody. Vodka. I got stuck into it as soon as
we got there, drank it straight. Then, of course, I felt really sick. He said I should go and lie down for a while. Go into one of the bedrooms, sleep it
off in there.
I swallow and my voice loses its sharp edge. So I did. I must have passed out. It was later when they came in. Three of them.
Jesus Christ, Carly Ryan looks paler than Ive ever seen him.
I was still really drunk. I dont know who they were. They must have been at the party, too. Maybe he told them I was in there. But he wasnt
one of them, so maybe he had nothing to do with it. I dont know. I didnt see them I kept my eyes closed, pretended I was passed out. I just
heard their voices.
Hes squeezing my hand so tightly that it hurts. I dont think he knows hes doing it.
I dont want to say the rest.
Thats okay, he says. Thats okay. You dont have to say any more.
Were both quiet for a really long time. I feel dead now. Absolutely blanked out.
Im sorry, Carly.
And he is. I can hear it in his voice.
Can you go now? I ask.
I dont want to leave you, Carly.
I dont look at him.
Carly?
He waits for a long time, watching me, trying to draw me out with his eyes. Then he stands and picks up all the stuff spilled over the deck,
putting it back in the wet tub, moving like hes old.
And then he goes.

32
laying down
I watch television, which I almost never do. Its a mistake because its rape night. I flick from channel to channel, dodging acronyms: SVU , CSI, CSI:
NY. These shows, theyre all about things being done to females and children. If they were full of things being done to say, Asians or black people,
well, that probably wouldnt be allowed not as many shows, all the time. But females and children are okay.
I cant watch these shows. The way they treat it, as though it was nothing, just a thing, a fact. Rape for entertainment value.
I sit on the couch with my knees pulled up to my chest, working the remote. Im scared to turn off the television because if I do I might think
about what has just happened. About the fact that another person knows now. Ryan knows about me. He knows whats under my skin, how
disgusting I am.
When Ive made it past midnight, made it to the next day, I switch the television off and go to bed where I dont sleep. I lie there listening to the
roar of silence, eyes straining to see in the darkness, each breath burning.
It burns, it burns, it burns.

Monday, I get up only to use the toilet and to ring Emilio, telling him I wont be in to work the next day. But when night comes I feel anxious, and
I have to get up and watch television again until Im so tired theres no choice but to go back to bed. On Tuesday I ring Emilio and tell him I need
another day off. I get up long enough to do this and to hang a heavy blanket over my bedroom window, not to make the room dark, although the
darkness is good, but to put that little bit more padding between me and the world. As the day dies my nerves start up again, little spiders crawling
under my skin. Its only the television that makes it stop. The bed is only safe during the daytime.

Emilios in the office when I get to work Thursday afternoon. Hes got the roster spread out in front of him and he gives a start when I dump my
bag in behind the door.
Carly? I didnt expect you in here. I thought youd still be Are you all right?
Yeah, Im fine thanks. I pull my apron out of my bag, start tying it around my waist. Emilios watching me. Hes concerned, but not too much.
Me being at work is less hassle for him than me not being at work.
Stu was lined up to do your shift if you want more time off.
No, Im okay. The only reason Im here is for the money. Ill be short for rent if I dont do this. As soon as this is over I can go back to bed.
How bad was it? The accident?
I shrug. Not that bad. I just got a fright, I think.
What happened?
I hit a tree.
Nasty. Hows your car?
U m, I smashed up the front corner on the passenger side, but its just body work, apparently.
Howd it happen?
I wasnt looking where I was going, which was good.
How can that be good?
I blink at him. I didnt realise Id said that. Because it was an accident, not a crash.
Carly? Its me Ryan. Thought Id give you a call. Hope youre okay, all right? I wanted to call earlier but I thought you might want me to leave you alone for a bit. So yeah. Ill ring
again soon, okay?

Friday afternoon. I pull into the courtyard at Dannys place to pick him up for work. As usual, I buzz his unit and then wait in the car. When he
comes outside he stops and looks around with a confused look on his face, and I realise hes expecting to see my car, but of course Im in Hannahs
Barina. I wind the window down and give him a wave.
Hey, whats this? Did you get a new car? he asks as he opens the door. He jumps in and bounces up and down on his seat, testing it out. I liked
the yellow one better.
Its my neighbours. Shes lending it to me for a while.
How come shes lending it to you? He turns to look at me then and actually recoils.
He wont look at me all night.
Howre you goin? Must have missed you, eh? Thought youd probably be at work, but it was worth a shot. So yeah. Mornings are killing me. What else? Foods good. The big news
is Im moving up in the world. They got me an ensuite, so Ive got my own shower and toilet now.

Adams working tonight and thats a pain because hes always out the back, yapping at me. I gently scoop poached eggs from a pan on one of the
front hobs, the heat rising from the grill baking my face, saying, Oh yeah?, Is that right?, and after a while I say nothing at all and his talk fades into
the background, a noise like bees buzzing. I plate up the order, zigzagging hollandaise over the eggs and toast, put it under the heat lamp and ding

the background, a noise like bees buzzing. I plate up the order, zigzagging hollandaise over the eggs and toast, put it under the heat lamp and ding
the bell loudly, cutting him off mid-sentence. He looks taken aback and then I realise hes running the food tonight so there was no need to ding
the bell. Face sulky, he grabs the plate and takes off, and thats good because then its just Roger and me. I like working with Roger, hes about the
only one I can stand these days. Roger keeps his back to me and he slams dishes into the rack and sprays them viciously, but he never talks and
thats good. Weve got things in common.
I never noticed people like us before, but now I see them everywhere. Last night Emilio sent me down to Coles to get some stuff we needed.
There was this girl working in the aisle with all the cleaning stuff, stacking shelves, unloading dishwashing detergent from one of the cardboard
boxes at her feet. I was looking for bleach and I hovered near her for a while because I thought it might be in front of her. Maybe she thought I was
about to ask her something because she steadfastly refused to look at me, setting her mouth in a hard line. I spotted it further up and moved on.
There were six different brands of bleach. While I was hesitating between them I glanced back at her. Shed forgotten all about me and had
stopped her unpacking to straighten up her clothing. The waistband of her slacks was unbuttoned and she was tucking her shirt in with both hands,
not seeming to care that she looked like a kid playing with herself, not bothered that her underpants were showing printed floral cotton, the type
with bad elastic that you buy in packets of five. I realised she wasnt as old as Id first thought, she just looked that way because life had been
sucked out of her. Her hair was stringy and her eyes were sockets in her face. She was thin like Kylie, but she had a manic energy like Shane, so it
was probably drugs.
Thats just the means though, the end result is the same. She was one of us. Her, Shane, Marty, Roger, Kylie, me. People being eaten alive from
the inside out.
Yeah, Carly, its me again. Not having much luck getting hold of you, but what can you do, eh? Anyway Pretty tired, eh. These hours are killing me. Takes a bit of getting used to.
Dunno if I told you but Im gonna hire a DVD player to go with my telly. That way I can watch surf stuff and whatever a guy here has got that Bruce Irons movie. And therere movies
you can hire out here, just like the telly and the DVD player. If you dont have it, you can hire it theyre gettin their money back that way. What goes around, comes around, I guess.

I make myself listen to Ryans messages. Not straight away, but the day afterwards when theyre not so fresh. I do it in the morning, the one thing
Ive got to do for the day, the rest of which I spend in bed. Sometimes he leaves them while Im at work. A couple of times hes tried calling late
when he knows Im home and should answer. I never answer, but I do make myself listen. It took me a while to work out why: its a way of
punishing myself. Im flogging myself with his voice because I make myself sick. Its like Im cutting open my own palm, watching the shame come
spilling out. The day it stops hurting when I hear him, the day I dont feel a cringe so powerful I want to rip off my own skin, that will be the day
its over and I can go outside.
Just give us a call sometime, thatd be good, Carly. Please. I really want to talk to you. Ill be back there in two days and I dont know whats going on.

Hannahs outside, knocking on the glass sliding door.

Hey Cookie, let me in.
I get up and go out to unlock the door for her. Im wearing my work shirt and a pair of undies and I see Hannahs eyes do a walk over me, but
she doesnt say anything.
Shes holding her tray with all the tea things on it. Hey, but you havent even been to get the paper yet?
No. Im tired.
She doesnt make a fuss. She tells me to sit down on the deck, so I do, and then she pours us both cups of tea, and I feel like its stupid, like two
little girls playing tea parties.
A warm, dry winds coming from the northeast. Its a hot day for March. U gly weather. U ngrateful weather. The sunlights harsh, burning my skin
like something chemical, but I have goose bumps on my arms and legs. I dont like being outside. I feel exposed. Hannah hands me my tea and Im
straining to hear all sounds under the steady buzz of traffic passing, tense, in case I hear the flap of thongs coming down the steps.
Hannah reaches for something on the tray and then holds it out towards me. My car keys.
Ryan brought your car back.
I take the keys, more relaxed now I know hes been and gone. Im grateful that he didnt try to see me. Thanks.
I gave him a lift back home.
I know they will have talked about me and it makes me hate the two of them. All I want is to be left alone.
Oi, its me. Wanted to see how youre getting on. Hows your car going? I was gonna say hello when I dropped it off, but I mean, I wanted to see you, but I was thinking you
mightnt want it. I had a talk with Hannah and Well, you know Im back for the week, so just give us a call when youre ready, okay? Im thinking about you all the time, Carly. Im
sorry for what happened to you. And Im sorry I couldnt help you with it better. I hated leaving you like that but I didnt know what to do, which is shit because I should have done
something or said something

Saturday night. Dannys working and hes helping me with the prep, making batches of muffin mix to be baked off the next day. At work he still
hangs around me like a pilot fish. If Emilio tells him to do something he glances at me first as though checking its all right.
Im taking a stack of dirty bowls across to Roger when Marty rushes through the kitchen nearly crashing into me and I flatten back against the
pass. Emilio follows Marty, brushing past me as well, his face red. Hes shouting.
Thats it, Marty! Youre out of here. Thats not acceptable. What if a customer had come in? Found you
Adam sidles up to me later while Im slicing cold, raw chicken thighs for the Thai curry. Raw chicken is so ugly.
Did you hear what happened? Emilio caught Marty with a girl in the toilets, that one that comes in every day to get her coffee. They were doing
it.
I put my knife down and stare at him. Theres the sheen of grease on his forehead, smudges on his glasses and a smirk on his face. Hes like a
vampire, sucking on the details. When I dont join in, he focuses his attention on Danny, who listens with his nose wrinkled.
I feel like Im looking at Adams face through a tunnel. Everything else has gone black and sound has been sucked away from my ears. Its just all

so ugly.
When Adam goes, Danny looks at me and the kindness on his face is unbearable. He reaches across me and moves my knife up so its not
hanging off the edge of the bench.

33
flammable
Wednesday afternoon, driving to work, I catch a whiff of salty grease and realise the chefs jacket Im wearing is dirty. It doesnt really matter, I
guess I wont be the first staff member to fall short of the official franchise dress regulations and there arent any really obvious stains but still, it
bugs me. I bleach the stains out of my whites with Napisan in a tub I keep in my bathroom. I wash them in warm water and iron them with
enough starch to make the cotton stiff. Im not a neat person, but Ive always kept my whites neat. The order of things is that I drive to work
feeling crisp and clean and at the end of the night I peel my dirty whites off. Now its all wrong. I must have hung the jacket up in my wardrobe by
mistake instead of throwing it into the tub. But what I cant understand is why I didnt notice when I was getting dressed.
The Laser is running on empty so I pull into the Quix service station on the way through Dee Why. I hate the stink of petrol but its better than
the smell of grease. Im pumping fuel, watching the dollars its going to cost me flick over rapidly, when a guy cruises past me on a BMX.
Its Shane. Hes wearing aviator sunglasses, long black dress shorts, a studded belt and a black Rage Against the Machine T-shirt. He looks like a
rock star. I recognise him by his tattoos and cropped blond hair. When I see him I release the handle of the fuel pump and pull the nozzle out,
dripping petrol all over my boots. Then I realise I havent paid, so I cant just drive off. I shove the nozzle back into my car and start pumping fuel
again, not wanting to bring attention to myself. As soon as hes inside Ill sit in my car and only when hes gone will I get out and pay.
He leaves his bike resting against the bait freezer near the automatic doors into the service station. And instead of walking inside, he walks over
towards me.
Its little Carly. He sounds relaxed. The reflective lenses of his sunglasses show me my own face.
Hello.
Howre ya goin, little Carly?
Okay.
Yeah? Thats good. He leans against the back of the Laser, not seeming to care that its all dusty. I look down at my own hand gripping the fuel
handle.
Hows the man? he asks.
I look at him. Sorry?
Ryan. Whats doin with Ryan?
I cant say hes looking at me for sure because I cant see his eyes, but it feels like he is. I dont I havent
When you talk to him, tell him I left some shit in the laundry I forgot about. I want it back. You dont have a key, do ya? You could just let me
in.
Sorry?
A key to the house. The reflective lenses make him look like a beautiful android. He waits for me to answer and when I still look blank, he
says, You dont know, do you?
I shake my head.
His voice changes, gaining an edge. Ryan kicked me out. Sweet, eh?
The handle clicks off and the noise of the pump stops. My cars full. I pull the nozzle out, shaking it off this time, and hang it up. All of a sudden
I feel tired. So, so tired. Im expecting him to start in on me. To say its all my fault. To ask why I freaked out so badly that night.
He doesnt say anything. Hes looking over towards the traffic passing on Pittwater Road.
After a while, he turns his head back to me. Yeah, thats just life, isnt it? Mates for years and then your mates get too good for ya. He
straightens up. See ya round, mate.
He walks off and is swallowed up by the automatic doors into the service station. Ive still got to pay but I dont want to follow him in so I think
about cleaning my windscreen to fill in time until he goes. But then I hear the faint noise of my mobile ringing and I lean in through my open
window, plucking it off the passenger seat. Its Keith, my brother, calling. I straighten up, resting one elbow on top of the car, and I answer the
phone because Im surprised Keiths calling me and it gives me something to do until Shanes gone.
So Im supposed to convince you to return home, he says by way of greeting. He sounds a little self conscious. Because, little did we know, I
have a lot of influence over you. Youll listen to me, apparently. So Im just ringing up to do my bit.
Through the glass front I can see Shane inside, up at the counter. God, she must have really hounded you to get you to do this.
Keith never gets involved in family politics. My brother is one self-contained unit. And hes never clashed with Mum and Dad the way I do. With
Mum, he holds an unfair advantage because hes male and doesnt say much, which she chooses to interpret as him being wise. With Dad, hes just
never rocked the boat.
Auntie Yvonne has stirred things up. Keiths voice has dropped in tone and now hes just talking. She had a go at them. Told them its
disgusting that they dont even know where their own daughter is.
What? Him, too? For a moment I feel a flash of gratitude towards Auntie Yvonne, but its distant and passes quickly like sheet lightning.
Yeah. You can imagine how that went down. Mums in a tizz. Hence, the call
Ill bet he doesnt know Mum asked you to call me. My voice is flat.
Keith sounds resigned. No, he doesnt.
The automatic doors slide open and Shane reappears, holding a packet of Tim Tams. He rips the packet open and pulls out a biscuit, clamping
it between his teeth like a cigar, then tucks the rest of the packet into the waistband of his shorts.
How are you going, anyway? Keith asks.
Okay.
Keith says nothing, waiting for me to fill him in, but Im focused on Shane. Hes sitting on his bike, munching on his Tim Tam, one arm
outstretched, pointing at me. I frown at him, confused, a little freaked out. He stuffs the last of the biscuit into his mouth, still pointing, his face

outstretched, pointing at me. I frown at him, confused, a little freaked out. He stuffs the last of the biscuit into his mouth, still pointing, his face
unreadable, eyes hidden by the lenses of his sunglasses. Then he grins. He rides off, giving me a salute.
Probably a bit late now, but if you want to stay with me for a while, you can, you know. Im sure Mums told you I bought a place. When I
dont answer, Keith says, Carly?
Did she tell you to say that?
No, thats from me. They wouldnt have to know. I wouldnt tell them if you didnt want me to.
And I realise he probably wouldnt. Keiths always been okay to me, weve just never been very close. I dont know if its the five-year age gap
between us, or because hes so focused on getting ahead in whatever it is he wants to get ahead in.
No, Im all right. Ive got a place. But thanks anyway.
Shane turns left onto the side street heading towards the beach. He must live here now.
I realise Keith is saying something. Sorry, what?
He raises his voice as though Im deaf. I said, so where are you anyway?
Right now Im at a service station, filling my car.
Keiths voice is sharp. And talking to me? Carly, its dangerous to use mobiles at fuel pumps. You better go. Ring me later.
He hangs up.
After Ive switched my mobile off I catch sight of the warning sign near the pump: an encircled image of a mobile phone with a diagonal line
slashed across it. I realise, then, it was probably this that Shane was pointing at.
Yeah. Well. So, its me again. Thought Id give you a call because theres not much going on out here, thats for sure. Surfs shit, conditions are brown and flat, sort of dirty. What can
you do, eh? Bloody tired, I can tell you. Hows crazy Hannah? What have you been up to? You been working? Surfing?

Surfing. Not any more. Its just something I used to do. The time for all that stuff has passed. Theres no point to it. Theres no point to anything;
thats the big secret Ive been let in on. Sometimes I think its not right, to lie in bed all day like this, but it doesnt really matter. U ltimately,
nothing does. Thats the thing about life, we all end up in the same place. Dead. In the face of that, who gives a shit what you do while you pass
from point A to B?
It doesnt hurt when I listen to his messages anymore. But I dont want to go outside. I dont want to do anything. Sometimes I wonder how long
this can go on. Im just existing. I remember Maslows hierarchy of needs from school. Ive got food, shelter and air, so Ive got all I need to exist.
But just existing is horrible. Everything in my world is grey. I dont have any urges or wants at all. I keep wishing for something to kick in, anything
that will make me get out of bed, make me want something. Im just holding on, I think, waiting for that to come. Sometimes I wonder what Ill do
if it never does.
I go to work, but its not an answer. It gets me out of bed for a while, but that just makes it easier to lie down the rest of the time.
He doesnt ring as much now. I know it must be hard for him to keep ringing and ringing without hearing anything back from me. I can hear it
in his voice. Hes starting to doubt that I want to hear from him, that itll do any good. I know its costing him to do it. In the beginning I thought
Ryan had it all together; he just seemed so sure. But hes not like that. He was just like that with me. Hes the sort of guy who keeps himself to
himself and, for some reason, with me, he really put himself out there.
I think these things, but I cant feel anything about them.
The other night I was driving home and came to, realising I was leaning forward, gripping the steering wheel really hard, frowning fiercely at
the road ahead. The radio wasnt on and I was driving in the quiet. When I became aware of this I couldnt remember the last time Id thought to
put the radio on.
What surprised me was how much I was straining. It had nothing to do with crashing or not crashing; I havent felt that for a long time. It was
about how hard it was just to drive.
So heres the story from the middle of nowhere. Cold at night, hot during the day. And dry my lips are cracked to shit. DVD players on the blink, which is typical. Ensuites bigger,
but its still a box with a fancy name. A rat cage. What else can I tell you? Twelve hours is a long time to sit in a truck. I want to surf. I want to see you. I want to hear your voice. This
is doing my head in. Its Ryan, by the way. Are you there, Carly? Are you even (Sigh).

Hes stopped calling. Its funny, when he was ringing me, I never used to keep track of when hed called last or when he might call again. Id just
see the message on my phone and know it was something I had to get through. Now, I have this count in my head, how much times passed since I
heard him sigh. What I dont get is why Im doing it. Will I magically feel better when I reach a certain number, like twenty-seven days or fortyfive? Or will that sigh get softer as I keep going along? Except Im not going along, am I? Im not leaving him behind. Im not even moving.

Another Friday night. We get slammed early and then things quieten down after nine. There are a couple of groups of customers sitting around
tables out the front but their orders were filled ages ago and now theyre just using the place as a base, somewhere to sit and stare at the river of
people surging past on the Corso. Adams on tonight, but hes not talking much, which is good. Hes in a dreamy mood, singing to himself. He
drifts out the back and turns the radio on and grabs a cloth before going back out the front where he wont be able to hear it anyway.
Danny wrinkles his nose in Adams wake but doesnt take his eyes from the slow trickle of melted butter hes pouring into the food processor.
Ive got him making the hollandaise sauce for the first time and hes stressed its going to curdle. Im standing at the pass, filling out the fruit and
vegie order before I ring it through.
Hey, do you want to go for a surf tomorrow? he asks suddenly.
Ah no. I mean, thanks, though.
How come?
I frown down at the clipboard in front of me, tapping it with my pen. U m, I dont know. I just havent been surfing lately.
How come?
I dont know. Im just busy.

He stops pouring and straightens up to look at me. I can see by his face he knows full well I havent been surfing and theres a challenging note
to his voice Ive never heard before. Like doing what?
For a moment we just stare at each other.
Not surfing, okay?
Huh. He turns his attention back to pouring, bending down to get eye level with the top of the food-processor jug. Thats dumb.
It takes a second for me to register that hes muttered this and that he sounds almost snaky. Why?
Because you like it.

34
easter
The lights changed. Its gold and weak, not white and glary. Autumn. Were well into April now, so it had to arrive sometime. Im as cold as
anything, shaking Im so cold, which must be why Ive woken up early. Ive only got a sheet over me and I get up to find my doona, which is lying
crumpled on the floor at the end of the bed. Then I think I may as well make the bed so its nice to get back into. I get as far as yanking the bottom
sheet straight and lose interest.
Im restless. I went to sleep irritated by what Danny said to me about not surfing and Ive been chewing on it all night, even while I slept,
because its still irking me. I dont feel like going back to bed. This panics me a bit if you want to know the truth, because its only six-thirty, which
means theres a lot of day to get through before its time to go to work. But maybe I can go back to bed later. I hope Ill want to, that Ill feel that
heavy tiredness again, because now its gone I can see how safe it was.
Right now I need to get outside because it doesnt feel like theres enough air inside the room. I wrap the doona around me and go out on the
deck, where I have to squint because the world seems too sharp. There are no clouds or wind, the sky is an eye-aching blue, the sunlight undercut
by the chill rising up from the earth. Summers over, winters coming, but right now is the in-between, the change. Ive always loved this time of
year the most, always loved Easter more than Christmas. Its because of surfing. The swells mixed, which means you still get runs of easterly swell,
not like winter where its usually coming from the south all the time. And theres not much wind about, or if there is its often offshore. The oceans
still warm but the sand is chilled. The water loses the emerald green of summer and starts to keep secrets, turning a deep, dark sapphire blue.
Most of all I love the light. I love how everything is golden, precious. Some days it makes things so beautiful it hurts.
My first time was at Easter. I was nine. It was school holidays and we were at Wamberal with the complete set of Lee aunties and cousins. Wed
set up camp down the south end, near the entrance to the lagoon where you can hire paddleboats and canoes and the little cousins could splash
about in the water with floaties on their arms.
Those holidays Dad had dug out a battered old shortboard: thick knobs of dirty wax on the deck, pastel blue at the tail morphing through a
range of eighties fluoro colours to a hot pink tip, Maddog slashed across the nose. At the time he acted like he used to ride it, but I think maybe
hed found it somewhere or it was somebody elses old board given to him to try. Anyway, he wasnt a surfer.
I was standing waist deep in the water, getting buffeted by the lines of foam, watching Dad pushing Keith onto waves on the board. Dad got
impatient when I asked him if I could have a go, probably because I was desperate I was sure Id be able to stand up with him watching, and I
wanted to beat Keith.
Being pushy wont do you any favours, Carla. He stared just past me, not at me, when he said this, which is what he did when he got annoyed. It
happened when I tried too hard or wanted too much, which was most of the time. Why wouldnt he look at me? I was just like any other kid: back
swayed by the forward thrust of my tummy, freckles, plump lips slightly parted, pushed apart by teeth that were a little too big I looked like I
was always about to question him, even when I wasnt, so that probably didnt help matters. But did he see a bad girl? Did he know something?
He turned back to Keith, dragging him out to the unbroken water, steadying him on Maddog while they waited for another mound of swell. I
considered staring at the sun and blinding myself Then theyll be sorry! but got distracted because a wave was coming. Keith was up on his
elbows, gripping the rails tightly, legs slipping sideways off the board because he kept looking back over his shoulder. He was shit scared, I
realised, which cheered me up a bit. Dad shoved him into the wave too late. It was already starting to curl, clenching like a fist. Keith was off
balance and he nosedived, Maddog shooting straight up into the air a moment later like a rocket launched from his arse.
That was enough for Keith. He got the shits and went in, marching through the white water as rigidly as a soldier. He reached the beach and
threw himself down on the sand near Mum, Auntie Yvonne and Auntie Patricia, who were reclining on their special beach chairs, watching over
our younger cousins playing in the sand. The three women asked him questions which he didnt answer.
Frantic, I went after Maddog, hauling myself through the water. I knew I had to be quick because if I didnt But I was already too late. Dad
was going in, too.
Later, Carla. You can have a turn later.
It stung. He wasnt going to watch me. I would have done anything to have him watch me, because things were only ever really good if he was
watching. Burning, I high-stepped like a fancy horse through the whitewash, dragging Maddog with me, going deeper and deeper. I was waiting for
the call from Mum: Not too deep, Carly. Carla! Get back in here now! But it didnt come, which meant I had to keep going.
So I kept going, out the back, where the waves hadnt broken and the water was green and clear. Out the back, where Dad had taken Keith. My
jaw was clenched and I was shaking. I wanted to show them so badly. Once there, I pulled myself up on the board and paddled around
awkwardly. I spent a bit of time talking to Maddog, too, because by now the board had taken on some real personality and, right then, was the
only friend I had.
For the first couple of waves I was too far back on the board and I didnt even come close to catching any of them, dropping off the back of the
peak each time. Then I was too far forward and got boiled in sand and white water.
I was so mad. I charged back out again, paddling wildly, furious with myself for not getting it, with Maddog for letting me down, with the
shithead ocean and the dickhead waves and my stupid family up there on the beach ignoring me.
Gasping for breath, I saw the next mound of swell coming, somehow managed to turn around in time and paddled like a maniac. I felt the suck
of the wave behind me and then the surge, which meant I was on. This new momentum held the board steady while I raised myself up on one
knee. I rode the fall like that, the wave collapsed into whitewash, and I clambered to my feet. And suddenly I was standing, knees locked, arms
straight, bum poking out, toes trying to dig into the deck. I rode the foam all the way in. Even now I can remember the magic of it: the sensation of
movement, the way time slowed, and that one moment lasted forever the roiling foam, the bright sunshine, the offshore wind drying my salty
face into a stiff-skinned frown of concentration, the humbling surprise of being handed such a gift. There was just that. At the waters edge I
tumbled into a heap and looked up at them. As Id expected the feat had gone ignored, but it didnt matter. The gift was mine. I didnt need them
any more. I had that.

I stand on the deck, wrapped in my doona, remembering that day at Wamberal, and I feel like somebodys shoved a stone down my throat.
Whos going to know?
The words come out in a croak because theyve had to squeeze past the stone. And Im not surprised Ive said them out loud because, lets face it,
Ive been cracking up for some time now.
Whos going to know? Whos going to know? Who? Who is going to know? I get louder and louder, trying to push that stone out, but instead it
swells.
Whos going to know? Who? Who are you doing this for? God? Your father? Those three guys from the Gold Coast? What? You really think this
is going to matter to somebody? This will get you out of it? Youll be let off? Shes being good, shes given up, shes stopped trying so hard, so
well let her be now. Well leave her alone.
You really think thats the way it works?
The first tears hurt like shit, warning drops before a full-on storm. I feel like the stones going to explode, blast through my skin. I swallow and
the pain is intense. And then Im bawling, my mouth open in a silent howl, shaking with big, snotty sobs that work towards melting that lump.
Eventually its gone, leaving me feeling like the inside of my throats been scraped out. But I cant stop crying.

My first time back is not brilliant. I go to Cook Terrace because I cant deal with the break all that hassling and macho bullshit not when Im all
over the place like this. I want to go somewhere where I dont have to worry about people. I havent surfed for almost six weeks, so it would be
good to have something like a two-foot easterly swell, no wind, easy predictable waves to help me find my rhythm again. What I get is a decentsized, choppy southeasterly swell and strong southerly winds, making for messy conditions.
I park on top of the headland near Mona Vale hospital and walk across an expanse of green grass, which sweeps away down the slope like a
runway leading to the golf course nestled in the belly of the basin. Behind the golf course I can see yachts on a sliver of the Pittwater. The sky is
full of sullen, bruised storm clouds. At the edge of the cliff I check out the options on offer, the cold bite of the southerly raising goose bumps on
my arms. There are quite a few surfers down at Warriewood, taking shelter from the wind. North of me, directly in line with the set of steps down
to the beach, are three younger guys who seem to want to hurt themselves very badly. Theyre throwing themselves into bone-crunching close-outs,
surfing like bodyboarders. The waves are like wolves jaws, sucking up to show dirty lace and sand, then snapping shut.
Down from them I see my spot. Theres a bank halfway along the cliff face separating Cooks from Warriewood. Most of the lines hitting it are
just ending in close-outs, but on every other set, it pumps out a workable right. Anyway, theres nobody on it, which is the main thing.
Six weeks is the longest break Ive ever had from surfing. Even when I was at Surry Hills going to uni I used to go at least three or four times a
week. But if you think I want to weep with the joy of coming home or something, forget it. The southerly is giving me the shits already, making
me edgy. Its a discontented wind and does nothing but stir everything up. I just want to get this thing over with.
Down the bottom of the cliffs, at the waters edge, I rub my hands with sand even though I havent put any sunscreen on so theyre not going to
be slippery. Its just something I do, part of the ritual of it all. The waters colder, I notice that straightaway. Ive only got a spring suit on and the
three boys further up are in steamers, but it shouldnt matter because I dont plan on being out for long anyway.
And then into it. Getting through the impact zone is a pain in the arse. I get smacked by a set of close-outs and end up boiling in white water for
what seems like ages. The whole place is a washing machine. Ive lost condition and Im puffing hard by the time I finally pull through it and
make it out the back. The waters chopped up and dark grey. When its murky like that you think of sharks and stare too hard at clumps of
seaweed and sand clouds under the surface.
When the next set comes through I go for the first one and then pull back off it. Thats the difference six weeks makes. My confidence has
dropped and my timings off. Im stuck between wanting the first one out of the way and the knowledge Im probably going to eat it. Its actually
bigger than I thought: at least four foot with an occasional five-foot face seeming to rear up from nowhere. A wave like that makes you feel
choked. You paddle forward to meet it, pulling each stroke with everything youve got to spend, while your brains rapidly calculating your
chances of making it before it breaks and telling you youve got no hope. If you get to the face in time, youve got to bury the nose of your board as
deep as you can, so that by the time the surge starts to pull youve started the swoop up, deck angled towards the crest behind you, so it cant pull
that volume of board through the water.
Where the hell is the right? Now Im out here everything coming through is a close-out and the rights disappeared like some mythical beast. Its
a freaking nightmare. A smaller set comes through and I paddle for my next one, knowing it doesnt constitute a workable wave but wanting the
first drop out of the way. Im slow getting to my feet but it holds up for longer than I think it will. I make the bottom turn and see the wall
stretching away in front of me, all of it the same height. I straighten up, the lip comes crashing down behind me and I jump backwards off my
board, abandoning ship, landing feet first into the white water. Excellent. This is just shit.
Ive just got out the back again and I finally see a shoulder. The right. Im undecided and hating myself for it, thinking Im too far inside and its
too close, sucking up into the pocket. I let it go and hear it thudda-thudda-thudda down the line. Should have gone. Next time.
So I wait. No point riding close-outs. All I want is just one right then Ill go in. Sitting out there in the murky water by myself, Im not exactly
comfortable. Put it this way: I dont pee. From time to time I have to paddle down to hold my position, trying to stay in front of a large boulder at
the base of the cliff, because theres a rip swirl thats pushing me northwards all the time.
After a while the wind drops off and the water surface smooths. Weak golden sunlight has broken through the storm clouds, turning the ocean a
deep radioactive green. The world seems hushed, waiting for something to happen. High above me on the cliffs edge I can see three men
silhouetted. Theyre checking the surf, I bet its something about their stance.
Then I forget about them because theres another right coming through. Its big, sucking up into the pocket like the last one. Once again, Im too
far inside, and I paddle across as hard as Ive ever paddled in my life, trying to make the shoulder but knowing Ive got to take this wave no matter
what.
But when it comes down to it, getting up is easy. Ive left it late but sometimes the more critical part of a wave is better; you use the waves own
energy, a quick suck-push that picks you up and throws you on the board. Theres a frozen moment, a snapshot in time, where I realise Im
standing, about to take the drop, and the drops steep but thats good because I can already feel the surge and swoop of it in my belly. I make my
bottom turn and see the wall stretching away in front of me, the muscle of the wave, steepening up sharply with the promise of speed.
I dont do anything more than race down the line. The wave is too fast to try for a top turn, but in an odd way it seems to go forever. Its a
freight train and its taking me for a ride. All I had to do was stand up.
As it drops away at the end, curling in on itself to collapse on the shore break, I kick out. Im grinning like an idiot, a hoot stuck in my throat. I
remember the three watchers and glance back over my shoulder at the cliff top, worried that they saw the wave and might be down to share my

remember the three watchers and glance back over my shoulder at the cliff top, worried that they saw the wave and might be down to share my
spot. But theres no one there.
I start paddling out again, every bit of me singing, my skin, my teeth, my hair, my ears, my eyes. I want another one.

For the next three days conditions get worse and worse. The southerly swings around to the southeast, which means everywhere is chopped up and
shitty. The water is a churning mess of sand and foam and grey water; desperates-only conditions. I must be desperate because Im out there every
day at Cooks or Warriewood for two to three hours at a time. I come in from these sessions feeling like Ive been hit by a truck, hardly able to
move, the muscles in my back and neck seized up like solid concrete. I dont know whats going on with me and I dont care much, either. Im just
totally obsessed with the surf. Before, I used to want to live out there. Now, Im wave hungry. I want every single rideable wave coming through.
By Thursday, the southerly blows itself out. The world is completely unrecognisable as the angry howling place it was the day before and looks
brand new, as though its just been made. I go back to the break. The swell is now coming from the east and the run of southerly swell should
mean that the banks have cleaned up and will be working well. Really, I dont think about it much. I just want some good waves. I park in the
back car park and dont bother going to check it: the lagoons smooth, theres no wind around and I can hear waves breaking whats to know? I
pull on my steamer and wax my board. When I come over the top of the dune I see the ocean and I feel like Im seeing it for the first time.
Today its blue, straight and simple. Raw blue.
I paddle out and sit on the inside at Alley Rights. The usual crew are out; the crows making a racket. I dont talk to anybody and I dont go into
the arrowhead. I keep myself to myself and watch the horizon carefully.
I havent been there for long when I realise theres someone bobbing not far away from me. Its that old guy, the one who looks to be about
eighty and wears a crash helmet. Hes lying down on his malibu, resting on his elbows, and hes been waiting for me to look across at him because
when I do he gives me a nod and grins, showing me he hasnt got all his teeth.
Youre back, sweetheart. I thought you were dead.

Friday night. Its only when I drop Danny home after work that I finally work up the guts to ask him, and even then I wait until Ive pulled up in
the courtyard at his place. It shouldnt be a big deal, but for some reason its become a big deal.
I open my mouth to speak, looking across at him, and find he hasnt moved, not even to undo his seatbelt.
Hes studying me, a look of concentration on his face, hands talking to each other, and I get the feeling hes been staring at me for a while. It
occurs to me, then, that apart from Ryan, Dannys the only person I know whos ever really looked at me.
What?
Youve changed. Danny sounds thoughtful, but also surprised.
I dont ask. Instead I ask the thing Ive been putting off. Even though I clear my throat, my voice is strained. Hey, do you want to go for an early
tomorrow?
Funny how when you think too much about what youre doing everything feels frozen and wrong; Im trying to come across as casual but Im
sure Ive got freaky desperation all over my face.
Im scared Danny will smirk, maybe say something like, Wouldnt you like to know?
But of course hes not like that. He just nods, looking totally serious. All right.

35
every right
COASTALWATCH
Swell size 1 metre Swell direction E
There were some excellent waves around yesterday and today the swell looks set to peak

Im down there by six. The sky is blocked by dense, dark cotton-wool clouds and it showers lightly from time to time. Theres no wind so its
perfectly glassy and the waves are good. I wash my hands with sand down at the Alley rip, looking for Danny in the line-up. Hes nowhere to be
seen, so I get a small kick out of knowing I was first.
Even though the world looks grey and gloomy, the waters warmer than youd think. I paddle out and sit in Alley Rights. The way the swells
hitting it there are a couple of peaks working: Alley Rights, the usual left, and then another left breaking further over, directly in front of the
lifesavers building. It strikes me, then, that I always pick Alley Rights. I know how to work it and I usually get a lot of waves there. Im thinking I
should probably mix things up more, move over now and try for a couple of lefts while there arent too many people here. But then I see my first
line coming through, rising up out of the glass like a ripple in a blanket. Its maybe three foot and I get overexcited when I see it, my mind racing
through all sorts of calculations: how good the wave is going to be, what Ill do on it, the fact that theres nobody around me so its all mine and I
can probably jam in a heap of these if I work hard this morning. Instead of just turning and going, I get fancy, paddling across so Im further inside,
thinking Ill take off from behind the peak and try for a sharper top turn, which is interesting considering its my first wave out and youd think Id
just want to get on the thing.
Anyway, by the time Im in position its really rearing up behind me. Im off balance as it starts to push and I definitely should be paddling faster
and more sideways for such a late take off. Just as Im getting to my feet, my left hand slips off my deck should have waxed this morning instead
of racing to beat Danny out and I face plant.
When I surface, pissed off because Ive just wasted what would have been a great wave, I see Danny paddling out towards me, looking as sleek
as a seal in his wetsuit. Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I paddle back into position. A moment later he joins me, sitting up on his board, a
smirk on his face.
You ate it on the last one.
Do you think?
He laughs, going floppy weak in that way of his. You were like this. He planes his hand through the air and then slaps the water. Here, Ill do
it in slow-mo. He planes his hand through the air and then slaps the water, slowly.
I press my lips together and choke off a laugh so it comes out like a snort.
Hey, this is good today.
I nod, agreeing with him. Its started raining again, the raindrops making a fizzing sound as they hit the warm ocean. Its like sitting in soft drink.
Another line of swell mounds up and we both go for it, hassling each other for fun. Im on the inside, but Danny gets up anyway. Grinning, I tell
him to piss off. He just laughs and keeps going. I jam my back foot down and turn off the wave, cutting up over the crest. Im back in position in
time for the third wave of the set: up, pump across the top, swoop, bottom turn, trim, into a cut back, steady in the foam, wait for the wall, pump
along the line, top turn, slide down, top turn, race the close-out, kick out.
Nice.
We get maybe another four waves or so each, pretty much straight away. I love it when its like this. Each wave gives you so much time. You can
fit so much in. But hordes of people are arriving all the while and soon the water is clogged with them. Most have paddled over to the lefts, but
therere a couple on our inside, all of them antsy because they havent got their first wave yet.
At least one wave every other set still breaks out wide, though, sectioning so these other surfers cant get across, and we take these rights. Theyre
much more hollow and sucky, but its better than having to bother with people.
Weve been talking, both of us in the water, holding our boards crossways in front of our chests, when Danny spots a big one that looks like its
going to break wide. He goes for it, but a guys coming across and hes charging like a train, I can track his progress from the back of the wave by
the spray shooting up. He makes it around the section and shouts Danny off with an angry Beat it!, when a whistle or a quiet Yep would have
done it.
What a tosser, I say when Danny paddles back to our spot. Ive seen the guy out before. Hes middle-aged and barrel-chested, talks to his mates
in a really loud voice when theyre around because he wants everybody to know that he has mates. When his mates arent around he bristles with
aggro because this is his break and were all out trespassing. Hes prone to glaring at people in the water for no apparent reason, shooting dirty
looks around like arrows. Ive seen him have a go at other guys the ones who arent his mates, dont know his mates and dont have mates of
their own. He paddles right next to them, getting right in their space, dishing it out in a big loud voice and splashing water into their face with an
angry flick of his hand.
There are a few different tribes at the break, but hes not from any of the weekday ones. He descends on the weekends at different times. If I had
to put money on it, Id say he doesnt live around here any more. He might have once, back in his glory days, but now I reckon he just drives back
to beat his chest and mark out his territory.
Hes sort of ridiculous, but the truth is, guys like him make me nervous.
Danny sits up and narrows his eyes. Yeah, I made it around the section, boy. And do you know why, boy? It aint cause I ride a big thick board
because Im too lazy to paddle a proper shortboard any more. Its cause Ive been surfing here for forty years, and thats forty years before you even
got off the boat, you chink-eyed little shit.
He says all this in an imitation Australian drawl: eyes narrowed, hardly moving his lips, voice loud and hoarse.
I frown. Did he say that to you?
Dannys face relaxes, not seeming overly worried. Yeah, one time. I dropped in on him. I didnt mean to, like, I said sorry and stuff. He frowns.

Dannys face relaxes, not seeming overly worried. Yeah, one time. I dropped in on him. I didnt mean to, like, I said sorry and stuff. He frowns.
I think it was thirty years, but.
Oh yeah, theyve all been here for thirty years. Or forty years. Never an odd number. Theyre all on some freakin anniversary or another. But
my voice is tight as I say the words because the guy is paddling back out and he seems to be heading our way. In that moment, seeing him set a
collision course for the two of us, something happens. I give up. I wont come back again, I tell myself. Theres no point. They always win in the
end.
Danny doesnt seem to notice. Hes lying down on his board, ankles crossed, elbows propped on the deck. His hands are talking to each other
and it reminds me of the first time I saw him.
The guy paddles past us so closely that my board rocks from his wake and he snarls, The trouble with this break these days is that its full of
friggin women and children.
My face is frozen. Theres the taste of metal in my mouth: fear. But Danny blinks as though his line of thought has been interrupted and he looks
over at the guy, shrugs, and says, So what? Its our break, too.
Your break, too, the guy mutters, hissing the words like a threat, shaking his head over them. But he keeps going.
Like nothing has happened at all, Danny slides off his board into the water. Hey, you know that movie, Trilogy? I got it the other day. You can
borrow it if you want. Its okay. But one thing I didnt get
He keeps talking, but Im not listening. I want to ask him how he did that. I want to know how he can be so open. I want to know why he isnt
scared. And most of all, I want to know how come he doesnt let them get to him. Hes just done one of the best and bravest things Ive ever seen. I
want to tell him that with those couple of words So what? Its our break, too hes changed my whole way of looking at the world. I dont know
what just happened, but I think hes written me a permission slip.
like, most of the whole movie is just them telling you about how great the movie is going to be. But then youre, like, so wheres the great
bit? Thats it? And when theyre playing poker and stuff, you can tell its just a set up
Have you got a colour, Danny? I interrupt. I cant believe I havent asked him this before.
He frowns at the interruption, but when he registers the question his eyes spark as he realises were on to possibly his favourite subject, his gift.
Then he scowls.
No. Ive checked. In the mirror and in photographs. It sucks. Everybody else gets one, but me.
Im silent for a bit, then I say, I think youve got a colour.
Well, he doesnt like that. He gives me a hoity-toity look and says, You dont have synaesthesia. Only I get colours from people.
Okay then.
After about thirty seconds he says, Okay, what is it?
Whats what?
Whats my colour?
Wouldnt you like to know.
He splashes me. Tell me.
I smile, then smooth my face out. Your colour is shiny.
Shiny? Thats not a colour.
Yes, it is.
No, its not. What colours shiny?
The colour the sun makes when it hits the water.
Oh.
He likes that. I can tell.

36
the glitter skin,
Saturday night. Work is a major slamfest. There are customers queued up out the door from five onwards. I have six or seven food orders lined up
on the strip constantly, and even at ten-thirty theyre still trickling through.
Normally when its crazy like this I try and race it. I flog myself to clear those orders and I feel overwhelmed when I cant. I get stressed about
the fact I wont have time to do everything on the prep list, as though Ive failed something. Tonight I have a change of mindset. I suddenly realise
that no matter what I do, how fast I work, how hard I try, how prepared I am, there will always be another drunken idiot wanting a bowl of
wedges. So I take it one order at a time. I dont stress about trying to meet the franchise manuals impossible standards. I just do my best. And
instead of working overtime for an hour to do everything on the prep list, I work an extra half an hour and do just the basics theyll need for the
morning. Because. Well, because no matter what I do the place will still be a mess when I come in next time. And there will always be hungry
people in Manly. Sometimes crowds of them. Thats just the way things are.
I finish up at twelve-thirty, take off my apron and trudge through to the office to sign off and get my bag. Theres a man in there talking to
Emilio. Hes tall, broad-shouldered, maybe fifty or so. I wait outside because theres not enough room for all three of us in there.
Sorry you had to wait for so long. If Id known you were there I would have said to come through, Emilio says to the man. You should have
yelled out.
No, I could see you were busy. I went to a movie.
See anything good? Emilio is scribbling out a cheque.
No, the man says. I like how he doesnt bother going into details.
Ill send the payslip through to you when its done. And the group certificate. Ive got your address. But thats everything owing on the wages.
Emilio rips the cheque off and seals it in an envelope.
The man takes the envelope from him and tucks it into the pocket of his shirt, his movements slow and deliberate, the way big people move in
small spaces.
Tell him we all say hello, Emilio says.
Yeah, will do, mate.
And if he ever needs anything, tell him to just give me a call.
The man nods slowly. Thats appreciated. I will tell him that.
They shake hands.
Thanks once again, Evan, the man says.
Emilio doesnt correct him. Good luck with it all.
As the man ducks out of the office he spots me hovering outside and gives me a nod. Hes got brown curly hair, shot through with grey, and
green eyes in a well-worn face. He looks vaguely familiar. He goes out the back way.
I join Emilio at the desk.
Carly.
Evan.
The takings are still in the register drawer on the desk in front of him. He consults the till readout.
Howd we do? I ask, pulling the roster across to me.
We did a shitload.
He pulls a pile of fifty-dollar notes out of the register and starts counting. As hes securing the first pile with an elastic band, he says, Do you
know who that was?
I finish signing the roster and straighten up. Who?
Martys dad.
I blink. Oh.
Hes moved back into home. His mum rang and asked if they could pick up his wages. She seems nice. Worried sick about him, of course.
I nod. Im glad someones looking after him.
Yeah. Me too. Martys all right. Just messed up.
Arent we all?
Emilio flashes me a smile, his brown eyes tired but warm. Go home, Carly. See you Tuesday. Thanks for tonight.
Yeah, you too. Survive tomorrow. I grab my apron off the desk.
Im through the door when I stop and turn back. Emilio?
Hes frowning with concentration, caught up in his counting. Yes?
Thanks for letting me know.

I take Pittwater Road home, and as I drive Im not thinking about anything. Maybe thats why it sneaks up on me. Or maybe its time and Im ready
for it or something. I dont know. Whod want to know how these things work? The universe is too big and weird for me to want to go picking at
its seams. Ive seen the rough end of it already.
Anyway.
I pass through Dee Why stretching out my neck and circling my shoulders. My muscles are so tight and sore. Its from surfing so much after
having had that break away from it. And its from standing up for eight hours straight at work. On the hill near Long Reef, I think about Danny as I

having had that break away from it. And its from standing up for eight hours straight at work. On the hill near Long Reef, I think about Danny as I
look across to the gap in the vegetation where you can just catch a glimpse of the surf as you drive by. Except I cant see anything now, obviously.
Not at nearly one in the morning.
I get green lights through Collaroy and then hit the long straight stretch into Narrabeen, the streetlights ahead of me haloed in the chilly, moist
air. Its the end of my week. Ive got two days off. And it feels extra good knowing this after working so hard tonight. I take a deep breath and feel
all those tight muscles release as I breathe out.
And I slowly realise that I feel good. Warmth is swelling inside me like a bubble of sunshine. My scalp and skin are tingling. The energy
crackling through me is like the singing I get after a really good wave. And it makes me want to smile.
Theres nothing behind it. No reason for it. I used to get this feeling all the time when I was a kid.
I reach for the window and start to wind it down, thinking this could only be better with cold, clean night air hitting my face, and then I hesitate.
Because that might be enjoying things too much. And theyll get you if you do that. Thats how I feel, right then.
If you looked at it from the outside, youd just see a girl in a car driving home. If you took the satellite view then youd see the yellow roof of a
car driving along a main road at night. If you went higher, you probably wouldnt be able to pick out the yellow roof, but youd see that there
were quite a few cars travelling on that same road, and you might notice it had six lanes, three each way. Further up, you wouldnt even see the
cars. Youd see a necklace of bright lights strung along the coast beside a body of black water. And if you went higher than that and kept on going,
you might eventually find the place in the universe where they decide what happens to people in their lives and they could tell you why.
But I cant do that. All I can do is decide whether or not to wind the window down.
I wind it down. And I lean back in my seat. And the air feels good. And I will take that. Because I am not what happened to me.
I let myself feel good for no reason. I let joy happen right there and then, and its inside me and around me, its the lights on the road ahead, the
clean black of the night, the cold air coming through the window. Its like hearing a song for the first time and being struck by it, haunted by it,
wanting to hunt it down and catch it, because the song sums up something you didnt know you wanted to say, giving you chills and goose bumps.
But even as you find out what its called, and youre thinking youll download it, youve already lost. Because the feeling was right then and there
and its already fading like a dream.
You just have to see those times for what they are: a chance to look down at your life. And when you do, you see its a skin made up of shiny
little moments.

I could keep driving, keep going all the way up to Palm Beach, or go to the break and listen to the surf. But in the end I just go home. Im tired.
Hannahs Barina is missing from the carport so I guess shes out doing her thing. I park up on the footpath, switch the motor off and dig around
in the glove box for my mobile phone. Its not there so I check through my bag, even though I dont usually take my mobile in to work in case it
gets nicked. But its not there, either. I clomp my way down the side of the house and the sensor light comes on, highlighting the bamboo thats
growing up near the side of the deck. When I unlock the sliding door to my place, I walk inside without bothering to take my boots off like I
normally do. I want to find that phone.
Things inside are the usual mess and I start with the table, moving newspapers and cups and plates around but seeing no phone. Then I go into
the bedroom, chucking the clothes on the bed onto the floor, and patting down the side table. Its not there, either.
I look around, frustrated, rubbing my forehead which feels greasy from work. Dont tell me Ive lost the bloody thing. Then I clomp back out to
the deck, which apart from the shaft of light spilling out of the sliding door is in darkness because the sensor light has switched off.
The wet tub. Maybe I left it there after my surf. I bend down and scrabble around in the tub. Sure enough, there it is, hidden under the damp
towel I forgot to hang out, keeping company with the bits of old wax, forgotten hair bands and the sand that lines the bottom.
I turn it on and when I see the message on the screen I feel a lurch of hope that slams my heart into my rib cage. I honestly wasnt expecting him
to call, even though for some reason finding that phone seemed really important. He hasnt called for so long.
I slide down so Im sitting beside the tub and I listen to his message hunched over, legs pulled up to my chest, elbows resting on my knees.
Carly, its me. I wasnt gonna hassle you any more but theres this one thing I want to say then Ill leave you alone. Mate, you gotta know I just want to say this because then its all,
you know, been said. So bear with me, all right? I want you to know that its not too hard, okay? Or whatever it was that I said. I never meant that, all right? I dunno why I said that
cause I dont think it. Nothings too hard. I mean, thats if you want it, too. So yeah. Ill be back on Monday night. Same bat time, same bat place. And I would really, really like to
see you. If you want to catch up you know where to find me. Okay, then. Ill leave it with you, eh? Its Ry well, you know who it is.

Ryans eyes are grey, but there are bits of gold in them, too. Sometimes when he looks at me the warmth coming from them takes me by
surprise. I miss him so much.
After a long time I realise Im still holding the phone to my ear, pressing it there hard enough to hurt, listening to what is now silence. My eyes
are burning and my throat is so tight that at first it hurts to swallow. When I can breathe, I pull air into my chest like Im drowning. And when I
exhale I get the most incredible sense of relief.
I cut the line and dial his number. There is silence, then a clicking noise, and finally the line connects. As his mobile starts to ring and I wait for
him to answer, I lean back against the wall, looking up at the black night sky.
Itd be a perfect night for smoking. The air is cold and still and the smoke clouds from a cigarette would hang around for a while like ghosts,
before going straight up.
But just breathing is enough.

acknowledgements
Thank you, Jason, for everything the whole way. I am hugely grateful to my agent Selwa Anthony (and Brian, Linda and Selena), my publisher
Laura Harris and my editor Amy Thomas, and my wholehearted thanks go to Tony Palmer and the team at Penguin. Advice and encouragement
from Kennedy Estephan and Peter Lancett helped me immensely while writing this book. I would also like to thank the Childrens Book Council of
Australia (New South Wales) for their generous support. Rohan Nott filled me in on the details of mining life, and Dr Anina Rich of the Macquarie
Centre for Cognitive Science, Macquarie U niversity, generously provided me with background information on synaesthesia any errors, in
interpretation or otherwise, are mine alone. For years of listening, thank you Dixie Creaghe and Jeanette Eagar. And for seeing the wave, thanks to
Geoff and Pam Nott. My thanks also go to Sue Booker, Julie Chevalier, Heather Christie, Derek Smith and George Mallory, who were there at the
beginning.