Page 82 of Summer, in Between
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‘EWW, Cat, look at this!’Tommy’s flipped a giant piece of seaweed and even from my viewpoint at the base of the dunes I can see the flicker of movement as thousands of sand fleas jump, leap and tumble, their hideous little opaque bodies reflecting the sea and the sand.
‘What is it?’I yell.
‘Come look!’
I get to my feet and pick up the bag of rubbish we’ve collected.Tommy’s found the partially decomposed remains of a fish in a jumble of fishing line.An eyeless cavity is filled with dirty sand.The smell is enough to turn my stomach.‘Man, fishers are pigs,’ I say.‘They just leave their crap everywhere.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘We can’t leave the fishing line,’ I say.‘What if a dolphin or a whale or something gets caught up in it?We’ll just have to grab the whole lot.Give me your rubbish bag.’I turn his bag inside out, gripping the base of it, my hand encased in plastic.I try not to gag as I reach out, my mouth clamped shut, my eyes watering, and grasp the fish.Something gives under my fingers, and I scream and drop it, disturbing the sand fleas who resume their disco.‘Ew, ew, ew!’I yell, jumping from one foot to the other.I take a deep breath, lift the fish and quickly pull my hand back through the bag, trapping it in a parcel of grossness.I knot the bag and drop it into mine, knotting that too.I toss it up on the beach.‘We’ll grab it on the way home,’ I say, then use the sand to scrub my hands like I’ve never scrubbed them before.
‘Hey look – here comes Dad,’ says Tommy.
Dad’s walking up the beach, his fishing rod resting on his shoulder, tackle box swinging in one hand, a bucket in the other.
‘Good.He can take the bag of rubbish,’ I say.‘Go grab it, Tommy.’
‘Eww, no, you do it.’
‘I picked up a dead fish.Don’t even think about it.’
He runs up the beach, scoops up the bag, holding it with his arm fully extended, his head turned away.
‘What makes you think I want it?’says Dad as he approaches.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ I say.‘You fish; this line could have been yours, tangling and trapping some poor creature minding its own business out in the ocean.’
‘It’s not my line,’ says Dad, but he lets Tommy drop the rubbish into his fish bucket.We all pull a face at the resurrected smell.
Our shadows are long ahead of us, the late afternoon sun reflects off the water and the sand is hot underfoot.We reach Dad’s spot, and he and Tommy climb the outcrop that extends out into the ocean.A wave curls, and I recognise the flash of blue that is Paul’s surfboard.Tommy calls out, and Paul waves.Bobbing out the back amongst the pack is Matty.
‘Did you know your son was out here?’I say.‘When did this happen?’
‘We finished up early.’Dad kneels on the rock to thread his line through a hook.‘And before you have a go at Matty, Paul offered.I didn’t know they were surfing here, though.That’s just good luck, my Dirty Three all together!’
