Page 21 of Summer, in Between
A wall of white crashes and bounces off the rocks in a steady pounding.At the foot of the dunes is a carpet of seaweed, torn, twisted sheaths of rubber.If the tide doesn’t reclaim it overnight, by this time tomorrow when the heat returns it’ll be hard and cracked, its shine reduced to matte.Entwined and tangled in the seaweed is rubbish.Ugh.I grab a giant discarded crisp bag and step in the gaps between the seaweed to start collecting.I pluck tin cans, plastic bottle lids, fishing line, straws and beer bottle tops.There are the disgusting remnants of cigarette butts, so many cigarette butts.I barely walk half the beach, and the chip bag is full.Still, the air smells clean, the scent of salt and wind clings to my skin and hair.
I place my stick under a giant pile of seaweed, its stem as large as my torso.I flick hard and it flips over, revealing thousands of scrambling sand fleas.I leap over them, using my stick to clear a path of sorts towards the cliff face.I hate stepping on sand fleas, but not as much as on seaweed.I’m always waiting for something to reach up and grab me by the ankle.
It’s sheltered at the point.I sit in the soft white sand, my back against the cliff face, cradled by rock.It’s so quiet below the wind, the waves muted.All I can see is a trinity of sand, sea and sky.The horizon is clear.The light between sky and sea is opaque, as if someone has taken a white chalk and drawn a line to separate the two.
It’s easy to imagine being the only person on the planet today, until far in the distance, the triangle of a boat moves across my vision.Closer in, shapes are moving just under the surface of the water, a strange shimmering.Seaweed, I think, until I see what’s unmistakably the tip of a fin flick above the surface.The shape shifts, separates, rejoins and then two dolphins rise above the water, their white bellies blending into the waves’ foam.They drop, and rise again, joined by another, and then another.One leaps high from the water, launching itself across the face of a wave, its landing sending a torrent of water splashing.I’m on my feet, wishing for them to return but their forms are replaced again by the waves.They’ve gone, and I’m both exhilarated and bereft.I grab the plastic bag of other peoples’ crap and my stick and run back to Dad.
‘Did you see the dolphins?’I yell from the beach.His face is beaming, and he points to the bay beside him.The pod is chasing each other up the beach.We watch them until they are indistinguishable from the white caps.It’s cold, my puffer no match for the wind blowing off the ocean.Dad’s had enough and so have I.We’re putting away Dad’s gear when another two cars of fishers arrive to fish the low tide.
‘Good haul?’They note our elevated moods.
‘Yep,’ says Dad as he turns to leave.He hadn’t caught a thing.
10
‘DIE, die, die!’shrieksMatty at the screen.
I sit on the bottom of the steps and take off my shoes and socks, leaving a miniature sand dune in their wake.
Mum’s in the kitchen, faffing around with the fruit basket, lining everything by colour.The fridge door is open and she’s an island in a sea of shopping bags strewn haphazardly around the kitchen.Dad and I timed that well, not having to carry them up the stairs from the car.I help Mum unpack the groceries.
‘It’s okay, Cat, I’ve got it,’ she says.
‘Yeah, I wouldn’t want Tommy or Matty to break a sweat,’ I said.‘“From every region, apes of idleness!”’
‘You’re the weirdest teenager, Cat.Lose the Shakespeare and go play with them.’She turns back to her fruit arranging.
I stand at the top of the living room watching my brothers wrestle their controllers.No thank you.
I’m lying on my bed flicking through my science textbook.It’s big, overwhelmingly so.There’s no way I’ll be able to read it this summer.There’s no way I’d be able to read it in six summers.Not even an hour ago I was mesmerised by science at its most magnificent; now I can’t focus on a single page.I am not looking forward to spending the next ten months or so dragging this to and from school.My back will be twisted and gnarled like the witch’s broomstick I found on the beach.I turn a page with more force than is needed and hear the sharp tear of paper over the banging from under the house –
thetook, took, tookof Dad’s nail gun belts out a tune against my temple.What will it be like with two of them under there, and one is the hottest of the hot?
I walk down to the living room where through the window I see dark, nebulous clouds shift and move through the sky high above the coastline, the ocean clear, the storm making its way out to sea.
‘The campers will be happy when it stops raining.’Tommy stands beside me to look out the window.
