Floodtide

The year is 1968, and Mike McAllister has newly arrived in the remote Pilbara region of WA, where life is as tough and uncompromising as the land itself.

The huge upstairs verandah was crowded and noisy as yet more drinkers jostled their way out from the jam-packed bar, protectively nursing their jugs of beer. The verandah's dozens of tables and chairs were occupied and standing room was at a minimum with barely enough space to throw a punch. But before long there'd be punches thrown nonetheless - the Mermaid Hotel was a tough place on a Saturday night.

Despite the crowd the heat was not unpleasant. Beneath the corrugated iron roof, large ceiling fans whirred, and a pleasing breeze drifted in from the sea. It was late July, the middle of the dry season.

Mike and Dan had found a spot in the far corner by the wooden-latticed railings where they'd been drinking steadily for the past hour with a bunch of miners from Hamersley Iron. Mike hadn't met the men before, but then, apart from Dan, Mike didn't really know anyone in Dampier.

Amongst the hard drinking men were several equally hard drinking women, which sometimes spelled trouble - the shortage of available women in Dampier could lead to fierce competition. But tonight the crowd's raucousness was good natured with little evidence of frayed tempers. Everyone seemed bent on having a good time.

Then the Swede arrived.