Love...Under Different Skies

by Nick Spalding

  Sandrine and her octopus-wrestling husband are next. He elects to dive in headfirst, the idiot. I think he’s trying to look macho, but all he succeeds in doing is nearly ripping his nose off when the mask hits the water.

  Harry and Myra take an age to climb in, but then we really can’t blame them for that. Rather than jumping in, both clamber down a steel ladder that drops into the water. This is just as well as the shock would probably have exploded Harry’s pacemaker the second he broke the surface. In actual fact Harry seems to be the happiest one out of the lot of us once we’re all bobbing around a few feet away from the boat.

  “Woo!” he exclaims. “That’ll get your heart pumping!”

  He’s not wrong. Mine is trip-hammering away right now. This is partly because I’m doing more exercise than I have done in months in cold Pacific seawater, and partly because my excitement level is reaching a crescendo. I am mere moments away from glorious reef-turtle-feeding fun.

  Last into the Australian ocean are Wilko and Tommo, our guides on this trip.

  “Okay guys, listen up,” Wilko says. “We’re both going to snorkel towards the best areas of the reef and start pointing things out to you. Just follow either me or Tommo. You’re welcome to swim between us, but please don’t go beyond where we are. If you get into any trouble, give us a shout.”

  Which is fair enough unless you’re already twenty feet under and sinking—but I shake off that disturbing train of thought and take off after Wilko, who I’ve decided to follow as he has the nicer bottom of the two. Jamie in turn follows me. I’d like to think that’s because he reckons I have the nicest bottom as well. Sandrine’s athletic French behind looks like it could give me a run for my money, but I still think I’d just about edge it in the perkiness stakes.

  The sea here is relatively calm, which is good as it means you can quite happily skim along on the surface of the water towards your intended destination using your flippers to propel you along. It also means that when I come to use the snorkel, I can do so without worrying about waves crashing over my head and sending a dump of cold, salty water down the breathing tube.

  I reach Wilko’s bottom—and by extension the rest of him—where it has now positioned itself a good fifty yards from the boat.

  “Right, this is one of the best parts of the reef to see the turtles,” he says to us. “Just remember to breathe nice and calmly while you’re snorkelling, and watch out for one another. I’ll shout if I see anything picture worthy. Have fun!”

  Oh, I intend to, Wilko. Don’t you fret.

  I put the snorkel into my mouth, take a deep breath, and plunge my head under the surface.

  Now, I am well aware that holiday brochures don’t necessarily tell you the whole truth when it comes to the trips and locations on offer. I’m well versed in the concept of Photoshopping and always take those pictures I see in the glossy pages of travel brochures with a pinch of salt. The sky is never really that bright cobalt blue, and the sand is rarely that perfect shade of white. Clouds are banished by the delete tool, as are any surly-looking locals who happen to walk through the frame when the photographer is taking the snap.

  Brochures of that nature are designed to sell you a dream and therefore are likely to play fast and loose with the truth every now and again to tempt you in. I accept this. And I accept that the website for Diving Gold would probably use some of the same tactics to draw people in to its turtle-watching reef trips.

  I say all this to reassure you that I’m not expecting to lower my head into the water and see a fantasy land of colourful coral reef that looks exactly like the pictures I’d been gazing at the night before. I’m not that stupid. I am, however, expecting to lower my head into the water and see something similar to what the images on the website had promised me.

  What I’m not expecting are brown pointy things—and a lot of them. Don’t get me wrong, there are lots of different brown pointy things down there. Some are thin and pointy, others are quite fat. Some are quite stubby, while others are long tendrils feeling their way out from the seabed.

  There is a lot of variety in the shapes and sizes on offer, but—and I can’t stress this enough—they are all fucking brown. Light brown, dark brown, mottled brown, and streaky brown. Browns of every hue. Browns of every tone. Fifty shades of brown, in fact.

  It’s just as well the sea around me is dark green, otherwise I’d feel like I was swimming around in a giant toilet bowl. This coral system is supposed to be at the end of the Great Barrier Reef. If so, it’s definitely at the arse end, judging by the decor. I can’t help but feel disappointed by this development.

  Jamie doesn’t seem too bothered, though. He’s happily snapping away with the underwater camera, and we’ll no doubt have a fun-filled evening showing Poppy pictures of a huge variety of blurry, brown pointy things.

  Still, it’s not really the reef we came here to see anyway, is it? Nope, the turtles are our main goal this morning, and surely they will make up for the monotone nature of their habitat, won’t they?

  It’s just a question of finding some…

  Wikipedia states that green turtles “spend most of their time in shallow coastal waters with lush sea grass beds. Adults frequent inshore bays, lagoons, and shoals with lush sea grass meadows.”

  What it completely fails to tell you is that they have the ability to turn themselves completely fucking invisible. I can only assume this is the case given the next twenty-five minutes of my life in an increasingly frantic underwater search off the coast of Queensland.

  To begin with, I just bob around more or less on the spot, confident that sooner or later I’ll spy a turtle and can go in for a closer look. After a few minutes it becomes apparent that this tactic is a very bad one to employ as no turtles cross my field of vision even once. I do see one rather fat, bored-looking fish swimming around on the seabed, but this isn’t quite the same thing. In fact, it’s a miracle I can even pick it out among the coral forests as the fucker is, of course, a healthy shade of brown.

  It dawns on me that I should be surveying a larger area, thus increasing my chances of turtle success, so I start to flipper my way between where Wilko and Tommo are bobbing about on the surface of the water.

  This takes up the next fifteen minutes, during which I spy the following:

  A brown, pointy rock covered in seaweed.

  The fat, bored fish again.

  Jamie.

  A brown, flat rock covered in brown coral.

  Sandrine’s bottom, which looks even more annoyingly pert underwater.

  The fat, bored fish’s mate, who is slightly smaller but looks equally fed up with its lot.

  Jamie.

  The underside of the boat.

  The first fat, bored fish again, who is now starting to think I’m up to something.

  Wilko’s bottom, which is by far and away the best thing I’ve seen so far.

  A brown coral that looks like a beach ball covered in dog fur.

  Jamie.

  A large crab negotiating its way through a thick patch of seaweed.

  My friend the fat, bored fish, who is now convinced I’m stalking it and is about to jump on the phone to alert the nearest authorities.

  What I don’t see hide nor hair of is a turtle.

  By now my legs are tired, the skin on my fingers is pruning magnificently, and I dread to think how much product I’m going to have to use in the shower to counteract the damage this cold, salty water is doing to my hair. I’m almost on the verge of tears. All I wanted was to pet the head of a wizened-looking green turtle in its natural habitat, is that too much to ask?

  Jamie surfaces next to me. “Have you seen a turtle? I thought I did over there, but it turned out to be a coral that looked like a furry beach ball. I took a picture of it anyway.”

  “No. No turtles at all.”

  “Elusive, aren’t they?�
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  “Shoes that fit my toes properly are elusive, Jamie. What these buggers are is nonexistent. I want my money back!” I shout and slap the water with one frustrated hand.

  “Oh come on, there must be some down there somewhere. Have another go.”

  And with that, Jamie’s head disappears again.

  I sigh.

  It’s pointless.

  If I was going to see a turtle, I would have by now.

  But I did pay quite a lot of money to come on this trip, so what the hell. Let’s give it one last try.

  I submerge my head and take another look around.

  Even the fat, bored fish is nowhere to be seen now. It’s probably off warning all its friends about me.

  Nope, it’s no good. There’s nothing else to see. Just large, pointy brown rocks and co—

  Bugger me!

  A flash of green flits across my field of vision. My head snaps around to follow it. I can see flippers. I can see a head. It looks wizened. Goddamn it, it’s a turtle!

  I take off in frantic pursuit and can see Jamie doing likewise from my left-hand side. Thrashing around in the water for all I’m worth, I pursue my quarry across the reef. It darts left, then right, but I keep it in my sights. My lungs are burning and my legs are screaming at me to stop, but I can’t give up the chase now. This is my one and only chance to be friendly and caring with a turtle today, and if I have to catch the bastard and pin it against the nearest rock with my fist, I bloody well will.

  The turtle starts to descend into the depths, and I try to follow it. In my headlong pursuit I forget that my head—including the snorkel—is now completely submerged under the water, and I try to take a breath. This brings the chase to an immediate halt as I inhale an unhealthy amount of seawater. Choking and coughing, I rise to the surface with ringing ears and a crushing sense of frustration.

  I was so damn close. I nearly had the little sod where I wanted it. If only I’d brought a speargun!

  Jamie helps me back to the boat. He once took a lifesaving course and is delighted to be able to put what he learned into action. This seems to consist of throttling the life out of me with one arm, while flailing the other and the rest of his extremities around in random fashion in the hope that it will in some way propel us both to safety.

  I’m still spluttering and coughing as I climb back aboard. To add to this is the unpleasant sensation of having swallowed several mouthfuls of briny Australian ocean. I wrench off the wet suit in disgust and plonk myself back down on the seat with my head between my legs. Jamie comes and sits next to me, cycling through the hundreds of pictures of brown pointy creatures he’s just taken.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I look up at him and give him the best expression of utter misery I can muster without sending myself off into another coughing fit. “I wanted to see turtles, Jamie. They were supposed to gracefully weave their way around me. Why didn’t they want to weave, Jamie?”

  “I don’t know.” A huge grin then appears on his face. “I got a picture of one!”

  “Really?”

  That would at least give us something to show our daughter. She might not be so angry at us, then, for dumping her in day care.

  “Yeah, look!”

  Jamie hands me the camera and I look at the display.

  It’s less a turtle, more a small greenish-grey blur in the corner of a picture that is otherwise a murky sea green with some brown pointy creatures at the bottom. I’ve seen more convincing and clear photos of Bigfoot. But the look of happy achievement on Jamie’s face is so adorable I don’t want to ruin it.

  “Well done. We’ll show it to Pops later.”

  The rest of the group has made its way back to the boat. I hear Drunky and Jim moaning that they didn’t see many turtles either, but the others seem quite happy with their day’s animal watching. I guess Australian green turtles must have an innate dislike of people from the British Isles. I can’t think why—maybe we used to eat them during the days of the empire. I’ll have to look it up.

  With everyone back on board, Daffo swings the boat around and we head back to shore.

  While I’m deeply put out that the reef was predominantly brown and the turtles were predominantly missing in action, I’ve still enjoyed much of this trip. The sun above us is hot, the sea is a gorgeous shade of green, and the warm wind that ruffles my hair as we motor along is extremely pleasant. And I got to pet a dolphin, didn’t I? Alright, he did give me a snot facial, and I could have probably petted one without laying out a load of money, but I’m taking it as a win. The trip could have been a lot worse, all things considered.

  Then we hit the rough water of the river mouth and the seawater I’ve swallowed interacts with the remains of the cinnamon doughnut in my stomach and I spend the remaining few minutes of our trip throwing up over the side of the boat. I can only hope that some of it landed on that sodding dolphin and gave him a dose of his own medicine.

  I’ve banned oceanic pursuits for the foreseeable future. It seems the wisest course of action.

  Still, this is by far and away the happiest I’ve seen Jamie look for a long time, making the queasy feeling I still have in my stomach more or less worth it. I’ll take nonexistent turtles and snotty dolphins over a miserable husband any day of the week.

  Love you and miss you, Mum.

  Your landlubber of a daughter, Laura

  xx

  JAMIE’S BLOG

  Monday 17 July

  Six months in Australia. It’s quite unbelievable.

  When I was a kid, the prospect of a week in the Canary Islands sounded about the most exotic thing on the planet. The idea of spending half a year across the other side of the world would have completely blown my mind.

  We’ve been in Australia long enough now to have dropped into a rather pleasant routine—pleasant, that is, provided you forget about my complete inability to find work. Still.

  Aside from the $500 I earned at the end of last month doing some extremely freelance advertising copy for the local youth hostel, I haven’t been able to contribute to the family budget at all.

  This means I’m getting ordered around a lot these days. As the breadwinner, Laura has naturally fallen into the dominant role and is the one holding the purse strings. Every morning, now, she issues me with a task, usually to go out and buy milk, or to make sure Poppy meets up with her friends from day care at the right time and place. I grit my teeth and accept the situation no matter how pathetic it makes me feel. I’m pretty sure Laura doesn’t like the dynamic any more than I do, but it’s the one we’re stuck with at the moment, and we both try to make the best of it until something changes.

  I can tell Laura’s starting to get really twitchy about the whole situation, though. The air between us grows especially frigid whenever the subject of money comes up. Laura’s just about managing to keep a lid on it, but I can tell her frustration level is reaching a critical mass.

  My priorities have, therefore, changed somewhat in my quest to find a job. It’s now no longer a question of just boosting my self-esteem but a matter of keeping my marriage on the straight and narrow.

  I think it’s best if we gloss over those issues for now, though, as the whole thing depresses me if I think about it too much—and will no doubt depress you, too, if I keep moaning about it. You’re going to need your wits about you to cover the next few paragraphs with me, and I need you alert and upbeat from the outset.

  As I was saying, our daily routine as a family largely consists of the following: We get up around seven thirty and have breakfast together. Laura gets ready for work while I play with Poppy. If it’s a day Poppy goes to day care, Laura leaves with her, dropping her off at Surf Tots before going to her job at Worongabba. I then fire up the laptop and write another couple of thousand words in the great Boobatron saga.

  If it’s
a day I have Poppy, we amble down to the swing park before I load her up with sweets and we spend the rest of the morning playing on the beach. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy this. This is the most time I’ve ever been able to spend with my amazing daughter and I’m loving every second of it.

  I feel incredibly guilty that Laura is out working while I’m having a good time with Poppy, though. I want a job mainly for the money, but I won’t pretend that getting the guilt monkey off my back is not a powerful motivator as well. There are times when Poppy will sit at the dinner table telling Laura all about what she and I did that day, and I can see the regret in my wife’s eyes. I would like nothing more than to swap places with her even if just for one day, so she could spend the morning poking dead jellyfish and building sand castles, while I sit at a desk in a shirt and tie doing something productive.

  The days in the warm Queensland sun seem to fly by, and before I know it, it’s about four thirty and Laura is coming in through the front door. Sometimes she’s tired and cranky from a hard day’s work, but most of the time she’s still quite bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Working for Worongabba may mean she doesn’t get to see much of her family, but Laura does love her job, of that there is no doubt. The most animated she ever gets is when she’s discussing her day with me. I don’t understand half of what she says, but I do my best to listen attentively. It’s the least I can do.

  Once Laura gets her work clothes off and has a cup of tea, we either go for a walk along the beach, or if the temperature is still high enough we go for a swim. The latter pursuit is becoming rarer these days as it’s winter here now, but every now and again we get a gorgeous sunny day, just right for a late afternoon dip before dinner.

  Such was the case on Friday. We spent half an hour mucking about in the cool, crystal clear Coolangatta water before towelling off and going back to the apartment for chili dogs and salad.

  When we go swimming, I always tie my front-door key into the cord around the waist of my board shorts for safekeeping. It saves having to leave my keys on the beach while we’re in the water.