Page 53 of That Island Feeling

JACK

Itie my boat up at the mainland dock, ensuring it’s snugly anchored against the wooden pole. With my papers tucked under my arm, I step onto the platform.

On my feet are tan leather loafers from a lost suitcase bound for Milan. I gave Charlie the designer kids’ clothes, while Mum inherited a pair of elegant cat-eye Celine sunnies. She promptly slid them onto her face and marched straight to the general store to flaunt them at Beryl.

I have fifteen minutes before my appointment at the Department of Primary Industries’ tiny outpost office in Port Hope.

I take a seat on a park bench beneath a shady fig tree. Its branches are twisted and gnarled, while its roots erupt through the concrete path like the tentacles of an octopus. Judging by the width of its trunk and the thickly foliaged branches, I estimate the tree is a few hundred years old – nothing compared to the ancient palm trees we have on the island, which Keith says date back to prehistoric times. Constantly comparing my island to everywhere else has become a habit. Now, it’s almost become a justification to keep holding on.

In this popular waterfront town with its holiday rental apartments and abundance of restaurants, gelaterias, bakeries and delis, tourists flow like a steady stream. Meanwhile, our glorious Pearl Island sees only a trickle of these visitors.

From my vantage point on the park bench, I can see the river-boat wharf with Charlie’s wonky, weather-beaten sign, affixed with one rusty nail and barely hanging on – much like all of us.

The sign reads:

DIRECT TO PEARL ISLAND IN JUST 20 MINUTES

COME FOR THE OYSTERS BEACHES

STAY FOR THE RELAXATION

WE LOOK FORWARD TO WELCOMING YOU ON BOARD!

I shuffle the documents in my folder, mentally psyching myself up for the conversation to come. It was Alec, straddling his jet ski, lingering an unusual amount of time near the oyster farm leases, that first caught my eye. Intrigued, I paddled out there only to discover that the unruly, wild seagrass had been cleared.

Then came his questions – tacked to the end of his commands, as subtle as a sledgehammer.

‘Room eleven needs new towels. Hey, how many oysters did you grow out there anyway?’

‘Those guests are arriving out of hours, can you check them in? By the way, what sort of returns on those clams are we talking about?’

I responded as vaguely as possible.

The last straw came when I saw him out on the river, replacing my recycled wood shields with plastic posts. That’s when I decided to contact the Department of Primary Industries. Their reply came with little warning a few days later.

Leaseholder and/or permit holder of the existing Pearl Island Reef: Alec Ogilvy.

Anger, then shame, seared through me. How could I have been so careless as to not stay on top of the paperwork!

I arrive five minutes early. Margie, the Fisheries Officer, hesitates on each page of my folder, drumming her red nails on the plastic sleeves.

Once she finishes reading, she looks up at me, her glasses sliding down her nose. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Cooper, but the current legislation stands.’

‘But these leases have been in my family’s name for years! How about native title?’

‘This land defaulted back to the Crown, and Mr Ogilvy has taken the appropriate measures to enlist a twenty-five-year-lease.’

My head sinks into my hands.

‘What does he plan on farming?’

‘Let’s have a look . . . it says here, Pacific oysters.’

My gut twists. There is no silver lining. He isn’t even planning on using his millions to revive the native pearl oyster population. Instead, his plan all along has been to farm Pacifics – the oyster responsible for overrunning our native rock and pearl oysters.

‘I thought that wasn’t legal?’ I attempt.

‘As long as you have an approved permit, and the breeding stock is taken up to the fisheries to be sterilised, then there is no problem.’

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