by Judy Nunn
He'd followed the dry river beds to the billabongs where, amongst the cajeput paperbarks, river gums and white-trunked coolibahs, wildlife abounded. In the late afternoons he would set up camp and swim away the day's dust, keeping a wary eye out for the large pythons that lay in wait for any unsuspecting wallaby that might venture down the bank for a drink at dusk. He'd watch the indefatigable snakebirds bob out of sight and magically reappear on their endless fishing patrol, and brown kites circle lazily overhead while the whistling tree ducks, wary of their presence, deserted their bank-side perches for the safety of the water.
Never once had he missed the companionship of others, and solitude had provided peace of a sort, the image of the dead girl rarely reappearing. But solitude had also lent itself to introspection, and his thoughts had turned to Jo. He'd trampled on her love, hadn't he? And when she'd left him, he'd successfully relegated her to the past. The one woman he'd loved, the one woman he would ever love, he'd closed from his mind as he'd moved on with his own all-important career. What sort of a man did that make him? A callous bastard, according to Muzza, and a cold fish, according to Jools. He'd come to the conclusion that they were both right. There was something lacking in him. He was an emotional desert, as remote and inhospitable as this land, which looked after itself and its own, but never others. A traveller would die out here. Like this land, he was incapable of nurture. No wonder Jo had left him – who could possibly blame her?
Mike's self-analysis was ruthlessly honest, but he found some gain in confronting the man he was. Even if he couldn't change himself, it helped him to move on.
Dampier had always held one major attraction when the need for fresh supplies forced him into town, and that was Dan. Dan Aitkens, whose slogan was 'Dan's Your Man', was an enterprising 'local' who'd set himself up in a tidy business, offering his services, and that of his Cessna 172, to the big industrial combines. He made a mint flying reconnaissance trips over the area for Dampier Salt and Hamersley Iron, he'd told Mike. Sometimes they were just joy flights for the big boys, but more often than not they were genuine recces.
The two had met when Mike had first arrived at Dampier. Dan had flown several reconnaissance trips over the reef for the museum team, to give them the lay of the land, and he'd maintained his friendship with Mike when the others had left. Mike was like him, Dan had decided. He was here to escape. From what, Dan didn't know and didn't care, but the Pilbara had got to the bloke just the way it had him.
Dan wasn't a local at all, he was a crop-duster who'd come north after a failed marriage five years previously. He'd had an instant eye for the potential the recent industrial development of the area offered, and had quickly concocted a local background to give himself added credibility. The claim no longer seemed a falsehood, either to the few in the know or to Dan himself. There was no-one who had a greater knowledge, or love, of the area than Dan did. He enjoyed sharing it with Mike.
'God's country, mate,' he'd say as they flew low over the hills of the peninsula and swooped even lower to skim across the archipelago. 'God's own bloody country.'
Mike never tired of his joy rides with Dan. Viewed from the air, the unique landscape was at its most spectacular, and nature at its most contradictory. The rich red-brown boulders of the diorite hills seemed to grow out of their surrounds, as if erupting in protest of their captive greenery. But the appearance was deceptive – over the centuries exactly the opposite had occurred. Niches in the rock had allowed the steady growth of spinifex and grasses, and the combination made for a breathtaking vision. Stretching as far as the eye could see was a primitive mosaic of unbelievable proportions.
Also viewed from the air was the industrial blot on the landscape, which, according to Dan, grew bigger with each progressive year.
'I'm not knocking it, mate, it's my living,' he'd say to Mike, 'but jeez, just look at the way it's taken over.'
It was true that the denuded earth of the Hamerlsey Iron loading yards, where trains two kilometres long delivered the ore from the inland mines, looked obscenely ravaged, and the docks and jetties of Port Dampier, stretching far out into the clear blue sea, were ugly and intrusive. So, too, the endless ponds of the Dampier Solar Salt Farm, impressive as they were, stretching stark and white over hundreds of hectares, appeared a hideous invasion upon nature.
But to Mike, there was something faintly ludicrous about it all. Man's interference seemed petty in the face of the unconquerable timelessness surrounding it. Ugly though the intrusion might be, this was no more than a momentary blemish, the land seemed to say, it would leave no lasting scar. In millions of years, mankind would cease to exist, but this terrain would not. This land had been here before the existence of man, and would be here long after his demise.
The peace Mike had found in his semi-nomadic existence was shattered following his sexual encounter at the Mer-maid Hotel. Was the dead girl to be present every time he touched a woman, he wondered despairingly. Was he destined to copulate with her for the rest of his life? He decided to keep well away from temptation.
Looking further afield, he accepted a job as a deck hand aboard a prawn trawler working out of the small but thriving fishing port at Point Samson, roughly thirty kilometres north-east of Dampier. The Point Samson Peninsula, with its secluded coves and white sandy beaches, was extraordinarily beautiful, and the nearby townships of Roebourne and Cossack, having been the first European settlements in the Pilbara, were picturesque.
Roebourne, established in 1866, remained a busy town, its hospital servicing the area, but its attractive stone buildings reflected a dramatic past, particularly the old jail, whose grim history was a reminder of the atrocities inflicted upon the local Indigenous population. The architecture of Cossack was even more impressive, which made the fact that it stood derelict all the more poignant. Cossack, the once thriving port for pearlers and those seeking their fortunes in the Pilbara gold rush of the 1880s, was a ghost town, finally abandoned by its last stalwart inhabitants in 1950.
The Greek brothers who owned the prawn trawler allowed Mike to live on board. They were only too happy to have their vessel under constant surveillance while they went home to their families, and the arrangement suited Mike. As the weeks became months, the dead girl ceased haunting him and he was content in his mindless existence. The brothers worked him hard, but he liked them. And they liked him. In fact, Nick and George Kostopoulos considered 'the boy', as they referred to him, a real find, and they told their friends so.
'The boy is fearless,' they boasted. 'He will go over the side and free the net when it catches on the propellers. He has no fear of the sharks at all.' Nick and George were very wary of the sharks themselves. All the fishermen were.
In their early forties, the brothers rather reminded Mike of beefier, Greek versions of Tubby and Fats Lard, the cray fishermen from Geraldton.
Not long after their new deckhand had been in their employ, Nick and George discovered that 'the boy' was far more than a 'find'. He was a veritable goldmine.
'Go in closer to the mangroves, Nick.'
The night was still and the moon was full, perfect conditions for trawling.
Nick, at the helm, was surprised by Mike's suggestion.
'But we always trawl this far from the mangroves. Better we keep a safe distance. We don't want to foul the net.'
'We're on a king tide, you won't foul the net. You can go much closer.'
'Why should I?'
'Because that's where the prawns are.'
'Oh, is that a fact?'
'Yes, it is.' Mike ignored Nick's scorn. 'The prawns feed where the nutrients are, and the nutrients are in the shal-lower water near the mangroves,' he said patiently. 'It's a full moon and a king tide – you'll be able to get much closer than you can in normal conditions. Go on,' he urged, 'give it a try.'
'Do as he says, Nick.' George jumped in before his brother could say no. Nick didn't like being told what to do. But the boy sounded very sure of himself, George thought. And be
sides, he was right about the tide, there was no danger of fouling the net. 'What harm is there in giving it a try, eh?' he said jovially, defying his brother's baleful look.
They had a bumper haul that night, the best they'd had all season.
'How did you know?' George asked. 'How did you know about the ...' he fumbled for the word, '... the nutrients?'
Nick nodded, scorn forgotten; he too was eager for the answer.
Mike smiled, but remained evasive. He had no wish to share his past with the brothers. 'The mangroves,' he said enigmatically. 'The mangroves are the powerhouse of the sea.'
From that night on, the brothers fished as close to the mangroves as they dared, and when it was a king tide they always realised a bumper harvest. The boy was not only fearless, they boasted to their friends, he was smart. But they didn't tell their friends why. Their friends didn't need to know that the mangroves were the powerhouse of the sea.
They doubled his salary, they didn't want to lose him, and Nick took to calling him 'genius'. 'Hey genius,' he'd say, 'where shall we trawl tonight?' The boy always seemed to have the right answers.
The nickname reminded Mike of the way Tubby Lard had called him Einstein, and he found it comforting. It was good to recall a part of his past with affection – he'd become accustomed to blocking out all but the present.
Having exchanged his nomadic existence for one of equal isolation aboard the prawn trawler, Mike's lifestyle remained that of a recluse. The nights when they didn't trawl were spent reading books or listening to music on his transistor radio, and his free afternoons were spent diving on the reefs off the northern shores of Point Samson. The reefs teemed with marine life, and he was happiest then. He'd make the occasional trip to Dampier to purchase more books and sometimes to meet up with Dan, but that was the extent of his socialising. Until he met Rupert Crofton-Asher. Ash changed everything.
It was the New Year of 1969. Mike hadn't gone home for Christmas. He'd rung his parents, as he did intermittently, and said he was making good money and intended to work through the holiday period. It wasn't altogether true. The brothers didn't trawl during the monsoon season and had taken their families south for their customary annual vacation. They would normally have laid off their deck-hand, but as they were loath to lose their 'boy genius' they'd kept Mike on a retainer with instructions to oversee the anti-fouling and general maintenance of the vessel. Mike eagerly accepted both the offer and the ready excuse that came with it. The truth was, he wasn't yet ready to return to Perth. He wasn't sure when he would be.
One Sunday afternoon, he took the trawler's tender – a three-metre tinny – out to the reefs well off the shores of Point Samson beach. He left it hanging off the reef on a pick anchor while he dived. During the height of the mon-soonal summer he was always careful to choose deep, clear water and to keep a wary eye out for the sea wasps that prevailed at that time of the year. He'd stick close to the reef too, in order to make his escape should the stinging jellyfish or sea snakes, or any of the other creatures known commonly as bities, make an appearance.
Having resurfaced, he recovered his breath, swimming lazily, breathing through his snorkel as he watched a huge loggerhead turtle which had also just surfaced. A boat was cruising not far away, a seven-metre Bluefin Savage. He gave a wave to the lone fisherman on board and the man waved back.
The turtle dived and Mike did too, following the cumbersome creature as it wildly flapped to gain momentum. Then, having built up its speed, the giant animal stopped flapping and used its flippers merely as rudders, gliding like a missile, effortless, powerful, no longer cumbersome but a thing of great beauty.
Mike followed the turtle for as long as he dared. He would have liked to stay down longer, but he knew better than to push himself too hard these days. Depressurising as he went, he made his ascent.
He resurfaced to a hive of activity. Everywhere there were fins, and grey shapes hurtled through the water at breakneck speed. After a brief, startled second he realised they were dolphins, a large pod, several dozen it appeared.
Barely a hundred metres away the Bluefin picked up speed. The man at the helm gave Mike another wave. He'd maintained a safe distance from the reef, keeping his eye out for the diver, and his wave seemed to say 'Watch this'. He revved up the engine and started doing wheelies, turning sharply, ploughing through his own wash, and the dolphins immediately latched on to the game. They followed the boat, and each time it turned they leapt from the water and jumped its wake, then weaved and dodged, trying to second guess its next move. They varied their tactics, some diving beneath the vessel, some swimming beside its bow, but each time it turned they raced for the wake, jumping it in a spectacular display of aerial gymnastics.
Mike sat waist-deep on the edge of the reef and watched as the play continued. It went on for a full fifteen minutes and could have gone on much longer if the Bluefin's skipper hadn't called a halt. The dolphins were tireless and bent on having fun.
The man slowed the boat to a crawl and made his way over to Mike, the dolphins following, begging for more. He put the engine into neutral and idled about twenty metres from the reef.
'I'll run out of fuel if I go on much longer,' he said.
'Thanks for the show, it was a real treat.'
'They sure are something, aren't they.'
The two watched as the dolphins, realising the game was over, started heading off to seek amusement elsewhere.
'I've never seen a pod as big as that before,' Mike said.
'Yeah, it's a big one all right, but I've seen bigger around here. Where you from?'
'Perth.' Mike guessed from the man's accent that he was American.
'How about a beer? I've got some on ice.'
'Great. Thanks.'
He dumped his flippers, mask and snorkel in the nearby tinny and swam to the boat. Then, using the engine leg as a ladder, he climbed up over the stern. The man handed him a towel.
'Rupert Crofton-Asher,' he said. 'They call me Ash.'
He was a lean, athletic-looking man in his mid-thirties, with a weathered face and a cropped beard that accentuated a strong jawline. His smile was friendly and the soft drawl of his accent pleasing.
'G'day, Ash. I'm Mike McAllister.'
The two men shook and, as Mike dried himself off, Ash put the engine into gear.
'I'll just get a little distance between us and the reef.'
Five minutes later, he cut the engine altogether and they drifted in open water. Ash grabbed a bottle of Swan Lager from the esky in the cabin. He poured two glasses and handed one to Mike.
'Cheers,' he said as they clinked.
'Cheers,' Mike responded.
Swivelling his skipper's seat around to face the stern, Ash settled himself, bare feet up on the gunwales, while Mike sat on the engine box opposite him, both men swigging thirstily at their beers. The day was hot and sultry, the air moisture-laden with the humidity of the monsoon season.
'It doesn't get much better than this, does it?' Ash wiped a minor beer spillage from his beard and gazed about at the aqua water and the white, white beach of Point Samson.
'God's own country,' Mike agreed, quoting Dan.
'How long have you been here, Mike?'
'Coming up for a year now.'
'Really? That long?' Ash was surprised. He didn't know why, but he'd presumed that the young man was a holiday-maker. 'Strange I haven't bumped into you. I'm a fixture myself, been here over five years.'
'Oh, I've been bumming around a bit, doing a lot of travelling. I'm working on a prawn trawler at the moment.'
Again Ash was surprised. Young Mike McAllister didn't look like a fisherman, and he was very well spoken. Ash would have guessed him to be an educated man. 'So you live here at Point Samson?'
'I live on the trawler.'
'Is that so?' Perhaps he was a uni student taking a year off from his studies, as some did, Ash thought. He was about to enquire further but Mike got in first.