I used to count the oceans on the map of the world -- four of them -- and wonder where the divisions lay, whether you could tell the difference by the texture of the water, the colour, the depth. Here on the edge of the Pacific the ocean stretches towards the horizon in an unbroken line of blue. If the occasional ship didn't pass you might imagine that it stretches into the sky. The end of the earth. Or maybe if you were strong enough you could keep swimming, swimming blue into blue, until you swam up into the sky and shot across it like a star.
The beach was a hostile place that day. A frost-edged wind whipped up a sandstorm and I sat out there in a bikini top, puckering up like a chicken leg on this summer's day from Antarctica. My little sister Lark, determined to maintain her tan, was securing her towel with the contents of her bag. Sunscreen in one corner, radio in the other, then she threw herself down, quickly pasting herself like a starfish in the centre. She did a quick scan of the beach from her prone position and looked up at me in despair.
- There's no one here. I told you we should have gone to Bondi.
- The boys wanted to surf.
- Bondi's just as good. It's bloody freezing. How long do you think they'll want to stay?
People huddled together in clusters like refugees on the beach, trying to conserve body heat. Not far from us, a little boy hugged his father's legs tightly together, trying to create a human shield. His dad was a skinny bloke though, and the miserable boy screwed his face up as the wind came blasting between the knees. I wanted to shout out to him, "There's no hope for you here."
On land there were long stretches of empty sand, but the ocean was crowded -- swimmers and surfers struggled not to hit each other as the water surged and fell, crashed and recovered. My brothers were in there, chasing high tunnels of water on their surfboards. The wind howled. I envied them their wetsuits.
A lifeguard walked by and gave us a lopsided grin. His nose was a zinc prosthetic.
- Hello ladies.
Lark giggled, I rolled my eyes and rummaged in my bag for a cardigan.
- Don't make eyes at him.
- I wasn't.
Lark sat up and readjusted her bikini top, ran her hands over her stomach.
- I thought you were cold.
She leaned back on her hands, pointed her toes but stopped short of tossing her head.
- It's not that bad. The sun's out.
She'd just turned fifteen and grown boobs, which she was eager to show off at every opportunity. In her radiant womanly pride she was blithely unaware of the family curse -- in another year or two it would all be backaches and bras which looked like they'd come from the maternity section. I shook my head and wrapped my cardigan around my shoulders. Let her keep her string bikini while it lasted.
- Nelle.
- Yes?
- He didn't mean it, you know.
- Of course not, I said a little too quickly.
Lark grabbed fistfuls of it and let it slip through her fingers. She couldn't look at me.
- It was good to get out of the house, wasn't it? You're having a good birthday, right?
- Yes. I'm just -- I'm just tired.
I caught a whiff of sewerage on the breeze. I wasn't sure if it was just my imagination or if a change the wind was carrying the fumes over from Malabar. The churning waves of the sea, the tease of effluent in the air was too much for me, the memory of backed up toilet water washing across the bathroom floor. It was getting too much for me. I had to get out of there.
- What are you doing?
- I just need to clear my head. I'm going for a walk.
- Do you want me to come?
I didn't bother to shake the sand from my towel, I just shoved it into my bag. I couldn't think straight. I wanted to throw up.
- No.
Maroubra and its surrounds were stonefaced. Everything seemed muted, faded, worn. Even the clownish designs painted onto the Seals building failed to be cheery. The orange seals writhed as though they had stomach pains. Around the corner was the highway, where the local kids had taken to hanging out. It was the latest thing to run out into the middle of the lanes and start doing push ups before oncoming traffic. Sometimes they pelted the taxis with eggs.
Today an underlying silence seemed to be the default setting. It reminded me of the day after the riots, when whole streets of cars had had their windows smashed. My older brother, Prescott, hadn't been able to stay away. He'd come down here to see what had happened to one of his favourite beaches. He told me that what scared him wasn't the glass on the streets or the bruises violence had left on cars, doors, windows. It was the way nobody could look him in the eye. And the silence, bearing down on them all. The stunned silence of senseless damage.
I headed away from the beach. Walking brought the warmth back into my hands and face. I'd been up since three in the morning and my mind was feeling woolly and slow, my body still wired up and tense. My eighteenth birthday and the big celebrations I'd envisioned had come crashing down. The first thing I'd done this morning was broadcast text everyone, saying the party was cancelled. I wasn't in a mood to celebrate.
It was only when I saw the fence I realised I'd been distracted and gone in the wrong direction. Instead of going towards the coastal walk I was heading towards Malabar. The rifle range loomed up ahead like a crooked Hollywood sign in the hills.
The red flags weren't up but 'danger' and 'fireharm' were posted prominently all over. There was a gap beside the padlocked gate and possibly a scenic climb up the sandy path. I'd seen people take their dogs in there before but the rifle range always made me nervous. I poked around the fence, wondering if I dared go through.
A voice floating over the wind made me jump. I turned around and saw a young couple standing partway along the fence. They looked around my age. The woman was struggling to keep her long, dark hair out of her face as she spoke. It flew wildly around her in Medusa coils. In contrast the man stood very upright and still with his legs wide apart; a tense, contained unit. His close cropped hair and the diamond studs in his ears immediately made me wary. He was frowning, a stern wrinkle cutting down the middle of his forehead.
- Why are you carrying this around with you?
- Sh- not so loud. It's not-
- Bashir -- you are giving that back -- you are giving that back to him and you are never seeing him again.
- Zahara...
- Bashir, don't even use my name until you give that back. I refuse to be with you and this.
She gestured towards the ground and I noticed that he was carrying a black sports bag in one hand.
- That was a stupid idea you had.
He dropped the bag. It fell to the dirt with a heavy thud.
- They think I'm afraid. Can't you understand that?
His voice trailed off, his eyes begged her to understand. But she moved one hand up to shield her eyes, whether from the sand in the wind or his gaze, it wasn't certain. The man gave out a cry of frustration.
- I'm not afraid.
He kicked at the gutter, dug his sole into the scrubby earth and sent dead leaves, bark, flattened cigarette butts flying.
- You want to take it back to him? Here. Take it.
He turned on his heel and stormed up the path, banging the steel frame with the palm of his hand as he walked through the gap in the fence. He trudged up towards the rifle range like a man to his execution.
There was another cry, this time from her.
- Bashir, she screamed.
He turned around, just in time to see her reach into the bag and bring out a bottle of vodka.
- Don't you dare walk away from me.
She pitched the bottle at him, it fell short and shattered. I could see Bashir yelling, but his words were whipped away by the wind. She turned around and started running towards the beach, with him in hot pursuit.
I was left staring at the black sports bag on the ground, sitting in the long grass before the gate. A simple black sports bag. The usual things were probably in it. A t-shirt, some shorts, old sport shoes, a towel, deodorant, drugs. Bottles of vodka. A knife. A gun. A bomb.
The young couple had disappeared along the pathway and didn't look as though they were coming back. I wandered over to the bag, contemplated it. I nudged it with my foot. It was heavy. Heavier than normal for a sports bag. It was unzipped, and with another nudge of my foot I could peer into it. Bottles of hard liquor. Bottles whose curves I knew only too well.
- Hey.
I jumped. The man was back and glaring at me from the other side of the fence.
- I was just wondering whose this was.
He eyed me suspiciously as he made his way around the fence, towards the gap. I was suddenly aware of the muscles in his sinewy arms, the gruffness of the hairs around his chin that formed a small beard. I stepped away from the bag.
- Cold day, isn't it?
He swooped down to pick up the bag, zipped it up and hoisted it over one shoulder. I expected him to go down to the carpark but he walked up the hillside path instead. He stopped at the site of the broken bottle and started kicking glass shards into the scrub, away from the main path. I hesitated a moment and then joined him. We worked in silence, but I could feel his anger dissipate as we kicked at the glass. It had the opposite effect on me. The kicking motion made me feel angry again. I thought about my dad, lying on the floor, and I wanted to kick him. I wanted to kick him in the guts and make him get up, get up off the floor.
Down below us, surfers crawled amongst the waves like black spiders. My brothers were in there somewhere, struggling to stay above the rolls of the sea. Squinting, I thought I could make out Lark, shivering on her towel. Her teeth would be chattering and her lips blue, but she was luxuriating back triumphantly, having conquered the elements. Something else further along on the beach caught my eye.
- Is that your girlfriend? I asked.
We looked down at the lone figure of a girl, walking by the edge of the water. She seemed out of place, carrying her shoes in one hand and wrapped up tightly in a parka. She was tracing patterns in the wet sand with her feet, hieroglyphs that only the seagulls could see.
- Yes, he answered, curtly. She needs to blow off some steam, then she'll be right again.
We kicked away at the glass and I grew defiant. I was eighteen today. I was eighteen today and my parents didn't have a hold over me any more. I didn't want to go home. It was decided. I wouldn't. I gave one final, flying kick and hit the heel of my foot against a stone embedded in the ground. My sandal flew off and the tender flesh of my heel grated against the stone and the edge of a shard of glass. I screamed in pain. The man rushed towards me and grabbed my arm, supporting me as I hopped about on one leg.
- Are you okay?
- Bloody hell it hurts.
- We'll wash it. Here.
He helped me to a patch of grass and sat me down. I looked in fear as he took out a bottle of vodka out of the bag and broke the seal.
- You've got to be joking.
- It'll sterilise it.
- Yeah but, oh God.
I screamed again as he tipped the vodka over my foot. There was a sharp sting of pain and then just a throbbing as my entire foot burned.
- Sorry, he said, sheepishly.
- That's okay. Thanks.
The way he was looking at the vodka bottle, I almost thought he was going to take a swig of it, but he capped it and placed it back into the bag. The alcohol fumes rose above us.
- Are you driving into the city after this? I asked.
- Yes.
- Could I get a ride?
He hesitated, sizing me up.
- Sure.
- Thanks.
- It's the least I could do. Bashir.
- Narelle.
We shook hands, awkwardly, and for the first time since I'd met him, he smiled.
