Summer2021

Scitech. I have never been here before, but everyone tells me it’s great. They tell me that the kids have so much fun that they forget to misbehave. Fantastic – exactly what I need for my two-year-old toddler. Distraction.

I look around at all of the activities. Seems like my friends are right, everyone does look happy and busy, and there’s not a toddler tear in sight. I spy a coffee shop over by the far wall. All of a sudden I can see my lovely morning stretching out ahead of me. Coffee and a muffin for me, activities for Bram, and everyone is happy!

This week has been a trying one. First, Bram got expelled from day-care. That’s right, expelled. Except the lady in charge didn’t use the term ‘expelled’.

She kindly said, “You know, some kids just don’t suit day-care, and I’m afraid your son is one of them. You shouldn’t bring him back.”

That’s ‘expelled’ in anyone’s language. He was biting other kids, apparently. Actually, not apparently, he was biting other kids. I saw the horror in his victim’s eyes every day when I picked him up. Tear-streaked faces with plastic bags full of ice-cubes perched on their legs.

Then he bit his older sister, who screamed the house down and cried for hours. An over-reaction? Maybe, maybe not. Today I just need to find something to occupy him and wear him out in a nice, safe environment. He needs to learn how to socialise with other kids in a public setting, and I need to learn to stop anxiously googling, ‘signs you are bringing up a future serial killer’.

Does your child scream for no reason? Tick. Does your child seem aggressive towards others? Tick. Does your child have unnatural habits? Tick. Clearly these are the signs that my ‘angel’ baby is fast turning into a devil child with a seriously scary future.

So, Scitech, here we are.

I order my coffee and take a seat near a long plastic tunnel. I watch Bram toddle off towards the entry to the tunnel, his chubby little legs so cute in their little blue pants. He’s so cute … but so … vicious.

There doesn’t appear to be anyone else in the tunnel, thank goodness. There are certainly no other parents around. I sit back and take a sip of my coffee, and suddenly the world seems like a better place. I can do this. I can turn my sociopathic son into a decent human being … hopefully.

My phone beeps and I glance down. Work wants me – it’s my day off, but that doesn’t stop my boss from ringing me every hour or so. I am in the middle of composing a long, detailed reply when I hear an ear-piercing scream. I spill my coffee all down my top. The scream is followed by louder and louder shrieks; it’s deafening. Two men come running over from another activity station and one dives into the end of the tunnel. He emerges seconds later holding a little blonde girl. When did she get there? Even with a red face and screwed up mouth, she is like a little angel. She has smooth fair skin, unblemished except for … a massive bite-mark on her cheek, which is oozing blood. The other man runs to the café and grabs a handful of napkins which he then uses to stem the flow of blood from the girl’s face.

My mind goes straight to denial. There must be some other kid in the tunnel, surely. Bram had just only started climbing through it. His aggression towards a total stranger couldn’t have developed that quickly, could it?

I head towards the start of the tunnel and decide to climb in to find Bram. This is partly so that I can hide from the other parents, and partly to get Bram out before he finds any other victims. It’s very claustrophobic in here and also very stuffy. Suddenly I’m wedged in and can’t go any further. I’m stuck in the tunnel! I can’t wriggle forwards. I see Bram up ahead, looking at me, smiling and waving. I yell at him to crawl towards me, but he just turns and goes further into the tunnel. I’m like an inchworm, inching my way along the tunnel with the speed of a tortoise. The only way for me to go is backwards, the way I came.

Going backwards is as fast as going forwards and now Bram is out of my sight. This is a disaster and I feel a rumbling sensation in my stomach. Finally, I get out of the tunnel. My hair is like a scarecrow, I have coffee all down my front and my lipstick is smeared across my face. I look possessed. I sprint to the other end of the tunnel to try and find my son. I peek inside to see him going back the other way. I sprint to exactly where I just was. I look in the tunnel to see him sitting in the middle giggling like a teenage girl. I put on a happy face, even though I am furious, and try every persuasive trick I know of, to get him out of that stupid tunnel. After a few minutes of trying, a large crowd starts to form.

They can feel my distress and they decide to try and help.

A lady inquires, “What’s your son’s name?”

I respond with, “Bram”, and mutter under my breath, “as in Bram Stoker, Vampire Enthusiast.”

Next thing, there is a chant echoing through Scitech. “Go Brian, Go Brian, Go Brian”. I can’t be bothered correcting them. Finally, my two-year-old criminal emerges from the tunnel grinning as though he has just been given a double choc chip ice cream. I grab him and hold him tight in my arms. Meanwhile, the crowd starts cheering and clapping. Bram turns and gives them all an angelic smile and a royal wave. My vampire son has gone from zero to hero in a matter of seconds.

I slink out of Scitech clutching my wayward offspring. I am going home to google, ‘how to keep your son out of prison’.

The harsh Indian sun beat down on the streets of Bombay with the piercing intensity of a wizened old man, his withering gaze encompassing everyone and everything not under the protection of sturdy roofs and satin shades. There were no clouds to shroud his vision today, no mountains to block his sight and so, from the comfort of the clearest blue he observed the squat Indian houses sculpted from clay and dirt, the hulking iron ships docked in the harbour, the chatter and colour that emanated from the exotic street market. He watched the people bustle around and observed the red English officer uniforms that swam about in a sea of yellow, purple and light blue saris, the only blemish on an otherwise picturesque tapestry.

He did not, however, notice the young local girl who skipped from shadow to shadow to avoid his rays, racing through the dirt-paved causeways with bare feet kicking up packets of golden sand and black locks whipping about her head. Sarita ran full-tilt, scampering past the spice stalls and the food vendors, pelting through the flag-adorned archways and scurrying by the stony-faced Imperial soldiers who watched the streets with beady eyes. As she ran, she experienced a sensation of freedom coursing through her body – a product of the street music she could hear compounding with her adrenaline. She felt it spread to her chest, her head, as she ran faster and faster, reaching new levels, higher levels, as though her feet had left the ground. She was flying, soaring, above the dirt, above the people, above Bombay, totally free until–

BANG!

Sarita felt her head smash into a solid mass as her legs continued on beneath her, slamming her painfully backwards onto the dusty road. The shock left her temporarily stunned and her nose began to run red with hot blood. She looked up to see the largest horse she had ever seen, and beside it, a well-dressed Englishman with a face quickly turning a deep shade of purple. In his hand he held a rapidly emptying bag of spice, the precious powder spilling out of a fresh gash in the side of the bag. The spice tumbled freely to the floor, falling at the feet of an Indian merchant who clutched a pouch of Carolina coins, his face steadily paling. The Englishman watched as the last of the spice left his grasp, and then with terrifying speed he rounded on Sarita, hauling her up by her grimy tunic and pulling her level to his face.

“YOU STUPID GIRL!” he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips as he shook the helpless child, her legs flailing frantically beneath her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? That spice is worth more than your life, you pathetic little savage!” Sarita simply stared at the man, wanting to understand, but her terrible English made that entirely impossible. Blood continued to drip from her nose and pool below her, and the scene began to attract the attention of the other marketgoers.

“That’s East India Trading Company money that you’ve just wasted, girl – Carolina saved up to buy the last saffron available in Bombay this season.”

Realising she had to say something, Sarita finally stammered, “I-I soh-ry Meest-er…”

“I don’t care if you are sorry, Indian, I care about my spice!” roared the Englishman. “What am I supposed to do now? Tell the Lord General that I just ‘dropped’ his saffron? Eh? Eh?”

The young merchant who had sold the spice stepped forward, hands outstretched. “Please, Mister, don’t be angry with her – it was only accident, I am sure!” he managed in passable English. “I am sure your master will understand.”

“Only an accident?” screamed the buyer, his voice rising even louder. The commotion had begun to attract a crowd, with shoppers, merchants, and soldiers vying to get a look. For the locals in the audience, it had become alarmingly obvious that what they were watching was more of a demonstration of power than anything else. Immediately, fear began to fill the air with its constricting and ever-reaching tendrils. The haughty Englishman noticed this and decided this would be a good time to teach the savages a lesson.

“I don’t care if it was an accident or not, Indian, this girl deserves to be punished,” he shouted, more to the onlookers than the actual merchant he was addressing. Slowly, painfully slowly, he drew back his arm, held it above his head for everyone to see, and then – SMACK! – Sarita was struck to the floor. An angry murmur filled the street; Indian people uniting together in their sympathy for the poor, broken, bleeding girl who lay motionless on the floor.

The merchant cried out in terror at the sight. “She just child, you evil Englishman!” he howled and rushed forward to pick up the sobbing Sarita. With a curt nod from the triumphant assailant, the Imperial soldiers from the crowd stepped forward and seized the man with rough, gloved hands, throwing him to the floor, delivering punishing blows with the gleeful enthusiasm of playground bullies.

The Englishman strode forward, stepping over the spilled spice and shaking child, and spread out his hands to address the silenced audience.

“Listen carefully. Your spice belongs to us, to your majesty the Queen Victoria. It is property of England – and so, if you spill a single pinch, you desecrate the name of the greatest nation on Earth. I must honour my country, and so, in the name of the just and noble Lord above, I will take the compensation I am owed.”

He sauntered over to the beaten merchant and seized the pouch of Carolina from his twitching fingers, holding it loftily above his head. He then returned to his horse, saddled up, and slowly trotted away from the scene, leaving the broken, bleeding bodies of the young Sarita and the brave merchant to bake under the mournful gaze of the wizened old man in the sky.

I am a little man in a fishbowl, enveloped by the soul-shattering silence of loneliness. I sit at the desk, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that act as the medium between my apartment and the world.

Just beyond the glass doors my balcony drops away to reveal a small strip of wild, uncharted beach, the vast expanse of the ocean beyond it. The ocean wears many different faces, like a spinning carousel it rotates day in, day out, trying them all. Some days I look out and see the raw destructive power of a maelstrom. Wind whipping and snarling as it tears across the green ocean waves, dark thunderheads form a rumbling backdrop. A thrashing, white froth screams towards the shore as waves fall over themselves in a desperate, ravenous attempt to make landfall.

On other days I look out through my bubble of isolation to see a playground. The ocean sky-blue, whitecaps playing peek-a-boo with the sun. Birds frolic and dance, like so many children, soaring on the breeze. The wind flows over the crashing surf, stepping gracefully down onto the white beach where it begins to languorously dance along the rolling sandy surface, caressing the folds and curves of the land, carving new paths to explore. The ocean tries to follow the wind up onto the beach, sending sheets of wafer-thin water inland with every crashing wave. These sheets gently meander upwards until they slowly succumb to gravity’s firm touch, sliding back into the sea.

The ocean acts as my only companion, my muse. It is always there, guiding me in the right direction. It provides the spark of life that I harness and guide onto the page, I shape and sculpt the ideas it provides into stories for others to enjoy; one might call me a writer but in reality, I’m nothing but a conduit.

The key to my art is detachment. Interaction with other people would simply serve to divide my attention, weakening my connection to the sea, my lifeline. All the supplies I need arrive at my doorstep once a week provided by my employer, free of charge. There are no papers to sign and no small talk to make. The lights stay glowing and the water keeps running all without human interaction. My employer provides these things on top of a healthy salary in exchange for the writing I produce. One story per day, that is all they ask of me.

Normally, I look upon the ocean, find inspiration amongst the waves and begin writing. The sooner I get to work the sooner I can forget the aching loneliness that envelops my apartment. I made the decision long ago to eschew social interaction in order to maintain my connection with my muse. Normally I’m so wrapped up in the minutiae of creation that I don’t have time to consider what my life has become. I don’t have time to consider if that decision to isolate was worth it.

Today, however, is different. The ocean I stare upon today is silent; grey clouds hang lifeless above it, trundling slowly along, urged eastward by a pitiful breeze. The clouds weep, their raindrops meander down to deaden the glassy sea. There is no passion, no life, no connection.

This is a problem. Every second that I’m not working or entranced by my muse is a second where my mind drifts towards the reality of my situation. A second where Truth can begin to edge its striated black fingers toward my heart.

My eyes drift away from the ocean.

The fingers, bit by bit, begin to reach their target.

I gaze around the room, feeling for the first time the black hole of loneliness that the ocean had always hidden from me. Seeing the empty coffee cups, the walls that hang bare, no pictures of loved ones to adorn them.

The fingers begin to close.

I push back from my desk, finally hearing the deafening silent cacophony that surrounds me.

The fingers snap shut.

I realise what my life has become.

I sit here, day in day out, churning out stories – a vapid inspiration junkie. All of it done without the sweet caress of a human voice, a hand, a face. I am completely and utterly alone. All of these years I’ve been blinded by my muse, that endless expanse of blue. But today I realise the mistake that I have made.

The decision to forgo human interaction weighs heavily on me, heavy chains pulling my soul down, down, down. Is it worth it? Is my connection to the sea, my writing, my art worth the loneliness? Worth the isolation? I now see the answer.

A wordless cry escapes from my lips.

I slump to the ground, a man in his sixtieth year. Alone, childless, without a family. Tears begin to fall, racing the raindrops.

Regret rolls through my body in waves, washing over me, flaying my soul. I realise that I am going to die alone in my little fishbowl, no loved ones close by.

I crawl out onto the balcony, looking out at the ocean and truly seeing it for the first time. Seeing the apathy, the disregard for my meagre existence. I understand in that moment that I chose the wrong path, my youth spent chasing the waves, searching for reason in the swell. My life spent as a quiet observer of the tides. Writing, day in day out.

“Why?” I ask, my voice so seldom used it sounds foreign to my own ears.

“Why did I choose you?”

“Why did I hold you close only to push others away?”

My muse offers no response. It offers no distraction, nothing to draw me from the grip of Truth. I see the silence, hear the emptiness. I understand fully and without doubt.

I am alone.

I collapse onto the balcony, and let the raindrops pepper my skin.

Edward’s legs, wired with muscle from rigorous training, lay effortlessly crossed in a lotus position. Allowing his mind to wander freely through his forest of thoughts, each tree a different shape to the next, he practised his zazen – sitting meditation.

As was getting more common in his zazen practice, his mind convulsed as he came across the same recurring memory of horror. Its vast, spindly branches cast shadows like bars across its barren surroundings, imprisoning Edward’s mind in a cage of anguish. Time and time again, he had trudged back through the forest to that one tree, reliving the acute pain of his father’s death.

From the rotten roots of this memory grew smaller saplings. Saplings suckling on the tar-like milk of Edward’s pain. His mind, haunted by the bullying of the other students, conjured up the word that permeated the barren copse of saplings – Gaijin. Its meaning simple: foreigner. It gave life to his mistreatment at the school and the animosity of the other students. They failed to see past his striking blond hair and icy blue eyes, preferring to shun him for his differences.

The past year of training at the Tatsumi-ry had trained him in Kenjutsu and Taijutsu, but no amount of physical training had enabled him to beat down the pain of losing his father. Nothing could have prepared him to walk down the road of solitude, surrounded by the landscape of a different culture, a different way of life.

His father, revered throughout Japan as ‘Nishi no Senshi’ – The Western Warrior – fell victim to the Siege of Osaka only a year before, fighting for his close friend Tokugawa Leyasu. Made famous throughout the land of the rising sun by his unparalleled swordsmanship and loyalty, he had journeyed with a trade ship to the Japans years before in search of a new life. He had found it in the way of the samurai – Bushid. In honour of his father’s years of loyalty to his cause, Shogun Tokugawa enrolled Edward in the Tatsumi-ry, a prestigious Samurai school.

Edward, his body left a husk without the comforting connection to his father, had been taken residence by a peculiar creature. It raged inside him, growing by the day as he learnt to appreciate the clarity of the life of a Samurai. His English roots began to retract, giving way for the tentacles of the creature. They had slipped into him like a traveller would slip undercover to shelter from the rain – with a sense of purposeful refuge.

A sudden lull in his concentration brought him out of his trance-like state, back to his physical surroundings. His ice blue eyes flashed open, aware at once, while the soft shimmer of the blue depths betrayed the warrior and the dreamer instilled within. Edward’s attention piqued at the sound of footsteps, soft and distant.

“Edward-kun!”

Edward uncoiled like a spring, surprised at the proximity of the voice. Hadn’t the footsteps sounded far away?

The gravelly voice of Sensei Itsuki deceived his slim, reedy figure. As Edward turned towards him, he could see the wind-stirred grey of an ocean in his eyes, pulling Edward in with its tide. His bamboo shoot of an arm grasped a shrivelled walking stick, more an extension of himself than apart.

“I see you have been practising your zazen,” he continued matter-of-factly.

As he spoke, the wisps of a beard on his chin wavered hypnotically, the grey strands more like the tendrils of the incense he burnt in their meditation lessons than hair.

“Hai, Sensei. I’m still struggling to let my thoughts flow past freely, though.”

Sensei Itsuki’s heady aroma of jasmine and sandalwood crept up on Edward, dousing him in calmness. The creature within purred, seeming to connect with the Sensei’s overpowering wisdom.

“And yet, Jack-kun, in time you will realise:

You sit in silence

waiting for peace; the real test

is in the waiting.”

The Sensei’s crinkled old head seemed to float in the growing darkness, resembling a genial toad perched upon a lily pad of kimono folds.

“But Sensei, the other students. They mock me for my large nose and blonde hair. I’m less than an unpleasant afterthought to them, just a gaijin! Even Sensei Takumi turns a blind eye to their bullying in our taijutsu lessons! Not once has he stopped them from hurting me after I have tapped out of a practice fight!”

The dripping anger in Edward’s voice settled over the darkness of the Southern garden, the blossoms wilting under his viscous words.

Without reply, Sensei Itsuki shuffled languorously over to the lone Sakura tree in the centre of the garden. Its branches drooped under the weight of its vibrant cherry blossoms, meeting the white gravel floor as an old friend.

A quizzical look of entrancement lay residence over the Sensei’s papery features as he observed the subtle difference in each blossom’s shape and colour. Edward could see the old Sensei’s mind blooming with thoughts, only visible in the periphery of the young boy; the reflection of a quiescent cloud on a tumultuous stream. The thoughts darted through Itsuki’s mind:

Light pink.

Slightly lighter pink.

It seems light pink is the Sakura tree’s paintbrush of choice.

Dark pink.

Even darker pink. Surely that blossom is red?

Darker pink, even still!

Ahh, but at what point is a cherry blossom too dark a pink to be a cherry blossom? Is it not now a rose, too dark to be akin to the pink Sakura tree?

Or… is it just a red cherry blossom…

No matter. I have no quarrel with a cherry blossom, red or pink.

Something in his demeanour of contentment at each blossom’s uniqueness told Edward that he could see past his blonde hair and blue eyes. That he could see the creature blossoming in Edward’s soul, not because it was foreign and unfamiliar, but because Sensei Itsuki held the same creature in himself.

“Jack-kun, only he who is lying down can be walked upon. These other students… They walk on you because you have not stood up.”

His ears giggled upon hearing his own wisdom, content with his words.

“In you grows a creature, young one. Engorge it with your compassion and courage, feed it your rectitude and respect, for in you is the way of the warrior – Bushid.”

The sound of shuffling sandals.

Receding into the darkness.

A flowing kimono enveloped by Japanese night.

Edward slumped back down to the white gravel floor; a look of bewilderment at his unexpected encounter painted across his pale features. Without further thought, he stood up, unable to be walked upon again.

Berlin was no longer a city. It was a battlefield of ideology with a frontline of barbed wire guarded by fear and mistrust. The reality was that Berlin had not been a city for quite some time. The people spoke the same language, ate the same food and shared the same dreams, but there was an inherent difference. A difference dictated by the ugly expanse of razor-sharp steel and separated by virtue of circumstance and inches. Berlin remained the only place in continental Europe where the iron curtain manifested as a cement curtain of brick and metal.

Summer in Berlin was always a hot affair, but this particular Sunday was broiling. The heat radiated off the concrete jungle and turned the entire city into a melting pot. Stationed along the dividing line between the two cities was a series of guards patrolling the killing fields and encircling the liberties offered in the western sector.

Lieutenant Diedrich of the East German Army was one such guard responsible for the security of the Eastern bloc. As Diedrich marched along the barbed wire fence he was tormented by Tantalus’ beckoning to the West. No more than fifty metres to his left stood a sign that read ‘YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE AMERICAN SECTOR.’ Beads of sweat began to trickle down Diedrich’s forehead as he struggled under the weight of his decision. Diedrich wasn’t like the other guards; he didn’t have the same twisted Stockholm Syndrome and blind loyalty to a regime intent on his subjugation. Checking his watch given to him by his father, Diedrich observed the time to be 1:00pm and knew that he must act soon or forever be trapped on the wrong side of the iron curtain. “You!” shouted Diedrich to one of his subordinates, “Make yourself useful and man the northern watch tower.” The guard obeyed without question. Diedrich had now put at least one hundred and fifty metres between him and his nearest and unaware adversary. 1:15pm – the deadline drew closer. But as it did, so did the overwhelming fear and significance of his situation. Had the Americans received the message? Would they be on the other side, waiting for him or would they leave him stranded beneath the hammer and sickle mere metres away from an island of freedom?

At precisely 1:22pm the clouds parted allowing the piercing sunlight to wreak havoc upon Diedrich’s already sweat-filled uniform. Diedrich looked into the expanse of the great blue sky and witnessed the clouds begin to move to form what appeared to be an eagle. He wondered if the people living in the western sector were looking up and seeing the same phenomenon, or if they were too preoccupied with their own freedom to appreciate the beauty in life. Diedrich knew that in the next several minutes he would either be one of those people – the free people – or he would join the eagle in a mausoleum atop the great clouds of the gods.

Looking over his left shoulder, Diedrich could see a crowd beginning to form in the western sector. A flotilla of police cars and an array of journalists flanked hundreds of onlookers surely ready to document what would soon follow. He looked down at his father’s watch and saw the seconds tick over until finally the minute hand hit six – his time for escape had finally come. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Diedrich took one last glance at the city he was enlisted to protect. The eastern sector of Berlin had not looked particularly appealing since the end of the war, but the grotesque gardens, closed shop fronts and poverty-stricken streets was motivation enough to take the final leap. Diedrich turned to face the West and his feet began to carry his body towards the awaiting police vehicles. Launching himself over the barbed wire, Diedrich levitated over the border as if he was temporarily weightless. The other guards stationed along the wall had clearly seen the commotion and began scrambling to stop Diedrich from fleeing the shackles of collectivism. One foot after another, Diedrich sprinted across no-man’s land propelled by a force like no other, the force of a free and sovereign people waiting to welcome him with open arms. The sound of gunfire rang overhead as Diedrich approached the row of police cars and journalists. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Diedrich felt smooth bitumen beneath his feet. Being so used to the cracked cobblestone that lined the streets of East Berlin, the transition was absolute. Two worlds apart, the gunfire ceased, and cameras flashed – his tortured fifty-metre sprint saw him as the only finisher in a race with countless false starts.

“Get in!” commanded a strong, West German voice. Before he knew it Diedrich found himself in the back of a police car. “Thank you, thank you,” seemed to be the only response that Diedrich could muster as tears joined the ocean of sweat covering his face. The car sped off into the heart of West Berlin. How things had changed since the end of the war. Everywhere Diedrich looked he saw unfamiliar sights. Restaurants lined with satisfied customers and a vibrant colour palette Diedrich was hardly aware existed. It was an American voice that broke the penetrating silence, “Times Square has really made its way to West Berlin, ha kid?” Unaware of what he was talking about Diedrich allowed the tears streaming down his face to satisfactorily confirm his response. The sensory attack that was launched upon Diedrich was like nothing he had ever experienced before. How was it that two places so close in locality could be so different by nature?

“That iron curtain isn’t so impenetrable after all,” laughed the West German driver. For Diedrich, however, there was little humour to be found – the thought of those he had left behind plagued his mind like a malignant parasite as he mourned their loss. The radio in the car had been flickering on and off throughout the journey, but as Diedrich began to doze, one thing was for sure – he heard the words “Ich bin ein Berliner.”

The force of the wave pushed me deeper, slamming me onto the reef. I had a painful crushing sensation from the pressure of the depths. My head felt like it was going to explode, my lungs felt like a vacuum sealed bag.

Now let me take you back to the start.

It was the last few days of 2018 and we were down south, roughly near Yallingup, and the weather was hot. I was living in our much-loved blue house with the wood ageing with every second. The house was filled to the roof with people all staying to enjoy the boiling days and long nights of summer. We lived on a small street with an always hot, maroon road. That road was the stadium of backyard cricket and held the world record of scorched feet and spilt beer.

It was the day we had all been waiting for. The sun was hot, sky was clear and the swell was as big as mountains. This day was the day that everyone was going to get the waves of their lives. We packed up the car and we were on the road in world-record time. Usain Bolt would have had a hard time keeping up with us. The spot that we had chosen to surf was Three Bears.

If you are not a surfer or don’t know about down south surf breaks, then let me explain for you. Three Bears is the kind of break that surfers go to get the best waves of their lives. This break is the training ground for the best of the best. The only way to reach Three Bears is by two different four-wheel drive tracks and these can be the downfall to many people, even before they hop in the freezing, shark-filled water.

I had just finished Year 7 and I was standing at about 5’8. I was quite tall for my age. The biggest waves of the day would have been double my height. It was my first time surfing this break and it was serious.

Our 4WD was packed with people on top of each other and tangled with what felt like hundreds of boards. But we pushed on. As soon as we saw the dark blue water glistening on the horizon, the car rumbled with screams of excitement for the perfect peeling left handers for which we had all been so anxious.

We jumped into our wetties with more excitement than little kids on a bouncy castle and raced down the cliff’s edge and onto the beach below, now looking out at the waves that could be compared to tsunamis. We slowly and carefully walked along the reef floor towards the waves. This was even more scary because the wave and the beach were blocked off by the five-metre-long road of dry reef, stretching across the whole beach. If you didn’t jump off the wave quick enough, then you were slammed into the toe deep water. This could leave you seriously injured. Or worse. We waited for the perfect moment to deploy into the icy water and then, suddenly, bam! – a wave came rolling in. We had no time to wait. We jumped into the water and paddled ferociously, so not to get flattened between the wave and reef. We paddled to the channel. We were finally safe and still in one piece. We could now happily move towards the area of perfect surf.

Out on the break we watched surfers get the best waves we had ever seen and some get the worst beatings of their life. We all had mixed feelings in our stomachs. Once sitting in the line-up, waiting for our chance to prove ourselves, a monster set came rolling towards us. Every single surfer started to paddle out, some eager to ride one of these beasts and others just paddling out so they could live to tell the tale of how they survived. I was not sure what I was feeling, but somehow I decided I was one of the few surfers to try and ride this beast. Instead of racing deeper out into shark territory, I turned my board around and paddled as hard as I could for this wave. The race was on. I was competing for this wave over five other surfers. Two suddenly pulled off, realising how monstrous this wave really was. Then another. And then there were two; just me and this man is his young twenties. I had only just had a conversation with him and told him how this was my first time surfing here. I was trying to prove myself to all my friends and family here with us.

I felt like I was going one hundred miles an hour with my arms starting to ache and my eyes burning with salt-water blasting in my face. This surfer looked me in the eyes and saw how hard I was trying.

“GO!” He let out the words hard and pulled off the wave. I gave the wave one last push, and now filled with adrenalin, the wave carried my momentum and suddenly I popped up and flew down the face feeling like I was snowboarding down Mount Everest. I reached the bottom and turned towards the face of the wave. All my friends and family looked and shouted with excitement, confusion and amazement. They waved their arms and at that point pure happiness filled my heart.

As I gazed towards the beautiful open face of the wave, getting ready for my next turn, the wave suddenly opened up and the lip came crashing over. I thought this was the end for me, how this perfect wave had stabbed me in the back. But then I realised I was not dead – but the opposite in fact. I was inside the barrel of the wave. This wave had not killed me but given me the best thing a wave could give. As I shot through the end of the barrel, I acknowledged the amazing ride and I said goodbye to this gentle giant of a wave.

I was filled with adrenalin and happiness. Nothing could ruin this moment for me. I paddled back out to the spot where my surfing life changed forever.

Nothing could stop me now. The surfers once again let me on the wave because I had proven myself. I caught the next wave and it carried me along but as I went to pop up, I realised this wave wasn’t like the one before. This wave was bigger, angrier and did not want to let anyone on. It wanted to hurt the surfer who thought he was up to the task. This wave did not let me ride down the face but threw me off my board. Before I knew it, I was plummeting through the air towards the sea, with my life close behind. I slammed into the water, hitting it like I had just fallen off a ten storey building onto concrete. The lip then came in to finish the job and put me to the bottom of the sea floor.

All I felt was pain and constant spinning. I felt my body scraping across the reef and the pressure of the water. I was underwater, not breathing. I tried to stay as calm as possible and tried to find the surface but my head kept on spinning. I tried to resurface but when I found the top, as I attempted to inhale the fresh pure air, a second wave of the set crashed down on my head and threw me to the bottom of the sea floor. I was winded and I hit my head on the seabed. I blacked out for a few seconds, then regained consciousness and pushed off the sea floor, only to get pushed down a second time. I started to panic and when I opened my eyes all I saw was fast moving, flashing lights and I had no sense of direction. My body was now aching for oxygen and beginning to feel weak.

I made one last push for the surface and suddenly my lungs filled with air. I opened my eyes and all I saw was red and flashes of colour. I could see the dry reef very close to me, and although another wave was about to crash, this time I was ready for it. I took a big breath in and dived deep down under the water only to resurface seconds later, unharmed.

That day I caught one of the best waves I have ever caught in my life and experienced one of the worst hold-downs and got a pure beating from a wave. I was on a tightrope of life and death.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever experienced a time in your life where you were so close to death that it was like balancing on a tight rope? So close to death that you could taste it, smell it and even feel death brush past your arm? This wave showed me what it is like to almost be taken off this earth. But this wave also showed me a new respect for the ocean. I chose to share this chapter of my life with you because this story shows how dangerous but rewarding the life of a surfer can be.

“Arrest them immediately.”

Blanch District was typically a corner of the city that Dominic did his best to avoid. Not only was it covered in Shadows, but the crippled economy resulted in the area becoming a graveyard for the ones who either happened to get caught up in the mess or were too slow and too pathetic to do anything about their situation – the latter being Dom’s preferred rationale. He placed high emphasis on unfaltering consistency, it was what got him a role this high up in law enforcement. Of course, he was never in a position of privation – he was born into a comfortable family which had always maintained a standard of recognisability in the community.

But now, he found himself standing out the front of a poorly maintained convenience store, hunting yet again another Shadow in the middle of Blanch District, with his matte grey mackintosh mirroring the skies. The only colour in this place was the luminous LED blues, plastered along the cityscape, faint in the dusk of day.

“You’re to go find them again, and arrest them at once,” Dominic ordered his subordinate.

A reaffirming head nod was confirmation enough and Dominic turned away, signalling the departure of his well-meaning accomplice. In an act of galvanisation, Dominic closed his eyes, hearing the echo of staccato footsteps gradually losing substance between the barren buildings and roads. Eyes snapped open; senses sharpened to the teeth the moment those footsteps could not be heard any longer. Breathing in the meaty air, Dom approached the entrance to the store. The ‘WE ARE OPEN’ sign glared obnoxiously at him from the front door. Stepping into the shop he was greeted by that signature bell that jingles whenever the door opens; an attempt to allure his wariness. He looked around. Aisles that were once stocked with magazines, confectionary, were now unsurprising bare. He continued to scan the shop when he noticed a back door that was partially open. Dom now combined wariness with urgency as he cautiously approached the door, which he could now see was crunched inwards at the handle, shards of metal scattered scantily across the dusty marble floor. Dom started down towards his hip side but to his surprise, the torch was already in his hand, a result of years of military training and experience. It was now that Dominic decided to burst through the door, torch raised, a completely blind manoeuvre. Such an action would probably be criticised by himself if he saw someone else do this, but prudence was a term that was far beyond the back of his mind right now. Lips pursed, he shouldered the door like a bull into a muleta.

Slam! He shone his torch as soon as he came through the door. To Dom’s surprise, there was nothing but an empty car park that lay in front of his vision. He exhaled after realising that the last breath he took was 30 seconds ago. Somehow, he’d narrowly missed it yet again. Accumulating his defeat, Dominic started to turn away and swept his torch back down – when he caught something in the light. A momentary rift in which the white seemed to just… disappear. A figment. Tell-tale signs of a Shadow.

His face only now began reflecting the realisation of these revelations.

“Hey!” He shone the light back up towards the carpark and there it was: a full silhouette illuminated in the light. He fumbled his right front pocket while starting towards the figure.

“Hey! This is an enforcer,” Dominic shouted. “If you do not co-operate and show us your Umbra Card, we will use aggression.”

The Umbra Card was a key aspect of the Blanch District. Shadows were originally banned completely from all districts across the city. However, if there was an outstanding reason for entry into a district, Shadows could obtain an Umbra Card. For the majority of the time though, Shadows that were seen in the districts did not have an Umbra Card on them, and therefore were either arrested or, if resistant, terminated.

The grey sky was now beginning to fade into a darker shade of blue, the light of the LED signs casting the carpark in a pool of luminescent light. It was getting harder and harder to see the Shadow and it would get even more difficult if he didn’t wrap this up quickly. The figure didn’t seem to be moving at all and by the time Dom went up to it, he realised that there were two – one adult size while there was another smaller one crouched behind.

“Umbra Card,” Dom ordered.

The Shadow didn’t seem to quite register the command, so he asked again. “Umbra Card.”

“Umbra…I – I don’t have one, tha-what is an Umbra Card?” The Shadow spoke.

Dominic was astounded. It was rare for a Shadow to speak, and when they did it was only in responses. Yes, no. But for a Shadow to make direct conversation with an enforcer? Dom didn’t think he’d ever heard of something like that happening in the city.

“Uh,” Dominic composed himself quickly. “You don’t have one?”

“No.”

“Then why are you in Blanch District?”

Dominic started to notice that the Shadow was clenching its fist, like it was holding something. From what Dom saw, something expensive looking.

“Sir?” the Shadow said.

“What is that in your hand?” Dominic asked tensely, his eyes glinted light green from the reflection of the lights above.

The Shadow looked down at its hand, then back at the smaller Shadow, who was now standing beside it. “Oh, it’s nothing really.”

“That so?” Dominic’s mouth contorted upwards at the corner. “So you wouldn’t mind if I just… take a look!”

Dom leapt towards the Shadow’s hand, grabbing onto his wrist. The Shadow pulled away, trying to release itself from the white grip of the enforcer. Dom grew more aggravated, and now started to wrestle the Shadow, taking him to the ground. Slammed into the cool concrete, the Shadow opened his fist, revealing perhaps a weapon. Dom reached into his own waist pocket for the final blow.

A bang echoed through the streets and up Dom’s spine.

He knew instantly what he had done.

He looked to the left and saw the little Shadow, silent in its mourning. An O for a mouth.

Dominic ran back towards the city, the remaining Shadow tucked under his arm, as the night descended upon Blanch District.

And a glass pendant containing a family portrait, left shattered by the fall from its true owner’s hand, forgotten about by the people who broke it.

It was a dry and barren place. Red dirt as far as the eye could see, and not the slightest indication of intelligent life. The piercing sun relentlessly beamed down on my fair skin, and hope was beginning to evade me. My crew and I had walked for a mere five days along the barren coastline on which our vessel had crashed. I was captaining a ship transporting spices towards Batavia for the Dutch East-India Company, a role which I had been aspiring towards for years. My dream had crumbled before me as the dead winds settled and the relentless currents pushed the mighty boat into an exposed reef. Water rained in through the sides and we were forced to abandon ship.

We lost men on the way to shore, as only few could swim. We quickly realised that we needed to find water; however, it seemed as though there was none. Ironic. A land so dry accompanied by the vastest of coasts.

So, we walked and walked along the white sand, the red dirt and the muddy mangroves, in dire search of survival. We encountered very peculiar animals on our travels. Hideous dogs with tattered skin and wiry fur. Terrifying birds as tall as ourselves, which to our knowledge were not even able to fly. Insects. Spiders as large as our hands. Flies engulfing any living thing in their numbers. It was unlike anything I had seen or wanted to see.

On the second day, we finally came across water. It was a mere puddle, stained a rusty orange from the ground it was situated above; however, it provided such intense relief. Hope began to consume us once again. We gulped the water down like dogs on a hot day and we settled under an array of small trees to escape the burning sun. Shortly after, we began to hear voices in the distance, which spoke a language very unfamiliar. We sat up from our relaxation.

Re-energized from the desperate gulps of water, we prepared to defend the water we had found, as I concluded that’s what the voices were chasing. Suddenly, five men appeared in the distance. They were a shade of black darker than anything I had ever seen. Unclothed and primitive, carrying nothing but sharpened sticks. I began yelling. Nothing in particular, I just prayed the loud noises would scare them away, as they did not seem particularly intelligent. I was correct. The archaic men turned around and jolted away, leaving our water untouched. Finders keepers.

By the third day our pool had run down to sludge in the ground and two of the men grew strikingly ill. “Time to move!” I said to the both of them. “Please Captain, just give us some time to recover,” they replied lethargically. The painful truth was that this was not an option, as I doubted we would survive that long without a renewed source of water. We were forced to turn our shoulders on two good men, once again in dire search for water. The wasteland claimed the first of its victims.

The morning of Day Four arrived. It didn’t feel like a morning. The young sun beamed brighter than anything you could imagine. Hunger and thirst were at a high and we desperately searched throughout the morning and early afternoon for something, anything that could get us through just a short while longer.

We walked into the afternoon, feet blistered to an excruciating degree, skin burnt to a crisp and mouth as dry as the land that surrounded us, until we abruptly began to hear the voices again. We approached cautiously and saw those people again. They sat in a circle surrounding a water hole, much larger in size than our last one. On top of this they had some form of meat cooking on a fire. It smelt incredible, far better than what these people needed. They struck me as people who would eat dirt if they had to. Men, women and children sat there in silence.

“We must scare them off,” I whispered. “It shouldn’t be particularly difficult.” And so, I signaled to my crew of six – “1, 2…” and with a prolonged pause, “3!” We jumped out from the cover, screaming and running towards them, expecting our mere presence to frighten them away.

Chaos ensued. The black men picked up their weapons and the waterhole was converted into a temporary war zone. A spear was thrown at me and narrowly missed my left ear, whirring as it sped past. Others were less fortunate. My young deckhand was struck in the leg and immobilised, whilst two others were injured. We were forced to flee, and left a blood trail for a few hundred metres, where we rested and allowed our heart rates to slow down. What about a waterhole could possibly be worth that amount of violence? These people were savages.

And now I lay here. Day Five. The sun slowly disappearing over the land, emitting an entrancing red glow. Despite this, I am still baking in the heat and humidity. I have left my men to be alone. I couldn’t bear to see them. I couldn’t move more than ten metres if I tried. My skin crackling like scales, all moisture absorbed by the dry dust that surrounds this land for endless miles. I lay here and remember my life and those I have loved, slowly letting go. All thanks to those people, if you could even call them that.

They had what they deserved – life in a barren, unfruitful, hellish, wasteland.

Bright golden light shone through the dark blue curtains. The sweet song of birds pierced through the thick brick walls. The rest of the world went on, jiving to the agreeable music and smiling sun. But I could not move; I lay in my frigid, callous bed waiting for the day to be over, hoping to the cruel god up in nowhere to take this pain away. The memory of my brother Ollie weighed me down to the bed, feeling the anguish left behind by a kind and innocent soul gone too soon. The calendar said May 24th, but I’d dreaded this day for weeks. My suit may be dry-cleaned. However, I never had any real intention of going to the funeral. It felt more inviting to wallow in my bed than to see my mother’s face swelling with tears, as she sought comfort in my stoic father holding back bereavement. To go would be accepting the idea that I’d never see my little brother again, never hear the small piglike snort he made when chuckling, never feel the warmth of his grizzly hugs.

Ollie meant everything to me; he had the kind of presence that could illuminate even the dingiest of medieval dungeons, always bringing a smile to everyone’s faces. Countless times he would comfort my crippled heart to recovery, acting as a lighthouse that could always help you find your way to shore. Nobody was there to comfort him, to make him feel safe as he drew his last breaths, strangers pulled him from the wreckage, but strangers couldn’t emulate the sense of home. I thought about what it must have felt like, to become lifeless on the bleak black bitumen, become consumed with the cold touch of death. Pain and regret had become an all-consuming black hole, swallowing my insides, taking away the strength for me to rise from the solitude I have left myself in. Why is it that on a day which can cultivate so much grief, people still move on, making their way through life until they reach that final poignant destination? Ollie found it, I’ll find it, we all will eventually, so what’s the point of continuing if death is the end of everything? I know I shouldn’t think of thoughts like that, but it becomes challenging to think optimistically when your world is shattered by such an unexpected and profound death. Twenty-three years was too soon, it was like watching a beautiful sunset at noon.

Through the walls, the faint sound of children’s laughter comes from outside. I don’t know what it’s about, but the joy of a child just can’t but help make you smile. It reminded me of the childhood Ollie and I had had together. The beach had been our go-to spot, swimming in the salty ocean to refresh ourselves for the day. The searing sun would cook us alive, but it was all still good fun. I remember once when Ollie brought down some chips to see what would happen if he just held them out, only to be quickly swarmed by two dozen bloodthirsty seagulls attacking him and each other over the food. It was hilarious to watch him frantically shake them off and run into the water. I wish some days we could have been like that forever, just him and I.

The reminiscing is disturbed by an obnoxious ringtone, but I can’t get up; letting it go would be easier.

“Leave a message after the beep.”

“This is your father. I hope you’re on your way, the entire family is here and would like to make sure you’re doing alright… I understand it can be difficult losing family, we all do. However, it’s better to grieve with friends and family than by yourself – the first steps to moving on. Your mother needs to see you; come down here and comfort her. Bye… I Love you.”

That must have been the third time he called today. Dad wasn’t one to say, “I love you”; for him it was a subtler emotion he would communicate through actions, or parental kindness, like holding you safe when you felt scared. So, on the rare occasion he did say it, it carried the weight of a thousand stars, knowing that it could travel millions of miles across the universe. He had a point; in dark times like these it is best to be around family that love you. Lying here will only make things worse, as I continue down the rabbit hole of an existential crisis. I use all my strength to sit upright before then putting my feet on the ground: taking the first steps are the most challenging part. I groom myself getting ready for a long mourning period ahead when the song of birds comes through, and I can’t help but whistle along to their mesmerising tune. Stepping outside, I feel the cool breeze touch my face, blowing away feelings of regret and anguish which still linger; the rays of sunshine melt the frosty soul developed within. I can’t help but look up at the beautiful baby blue sky and wonder to myself if Ollie is doing alright.

“MOTEL”– each letter illuminated in the nightfall. Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight” played sorrowfully then vibrantly on the radio.

“And I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord.”

The beat reverberated throughout my dad’s white Holden Gemini.

I wasn’t thinking about the 8:30 pm bedtime curfew that Dad forced upon me on a school night. Nor was I thinking about the belt that was sure to be delivered to me the minute I arrived back on the front porch. I was thinking about Bec. I wanted to make itspecial.

“We’re here, Bec,” I said over the rhythm.

Her azure eyes were quick to open from her sleep as the red-leathered seat engulfed her small and weak framed body amidst her denim jeans and pink woollen jumper. She looked over to me and smiled comfortably – much more than comfortably. She smiled as if nothing was wrong. She smiled as if, for the last time, her thoughts and memories were to stagnantly dissolve into tranquillity – and they were. Slowly.

“That took ages,” Bec chuckled as she tucked her blonde hair behind her ears.

Then – her cheeky grin was short-lived by a realisation of something much bigger looming over her.

“Sorry Bec, this is all I could afford. I worked a few more hou…”

“It’s perfect,” she calmly interrupted, with her pale hands placed gently on my lap and, yet again, that understanding smile.
“Well, it’s something…” I replied quietly.

I slowly redirected the car off Canning Highway. The headlights formed the opening of the towering white metal gate and its shimmering golden pickets that had endured countless brooding Australian summers. We approached a handsome old man at the entrance of the gate whose heavy stare followed us in. His transparent glance knew a thing or two about young couples and their brief overnight shenanigans and it felt as if he knew something about us. Though, that’s not what we came for. That’s not what I came for.

***

“It’s beautiful. I love it. I love you,” she stated, softly and slowly.

The projection dimmed and she looked at me and rubbed her nose against mine.

“I love you.”

A few words I won’t be able to say again.

We looked outside, her in my arms, one last time, and observed the colossal poles that illuminated its myriad of burning light onto the bitumen and lifeless lawns of the suburbs.

Scorching and swallowing the condemned.