The vast majority of Barrenjoey Island was barely an island at all, being really no more than a few sizeable heads of coral a hundred and fifty miles east of Ashmore Island that struggled above the waterline here and there, depending on the tide. The island’s shape was that of a horseshoe, broken in several places, allowing the sea to drain away as the tide dropped. At the base of this horseshoe was a small white sand beach and a handful of battered but resilient coconut palms that gave shelter to a small ecosystem. Occasionally, recreational sailing craft would venture carefully within the two arms of the enveloping horseshoe, drawn by the postcard perfection of the white sand beach, swaying palms and azure lagoon waters, following the warnings laid out on the charts to drop both bow and stern anchors. Fortunately, on this particular morning, the lagoon was empty of sailing craft.
The sea currents had caught the enormous shoal and swirled it within the arms of the horseshoe, so that before the tide turned and the seawater began to drain from the reef, the lagoon glittered with the bloated white and silver bellies of tens of thousands of rotting fish. Several sharks would have been amongst them but, having no swim bladders, they sank to the bottom rather than floating to the surface when they died. Birds had joined the fish, and here and there desiccated feathers in various shades of black and white and grey bobbed amongst the silver, along with a dozen turtles and a small pod of dolphins.
The tropical sun beat down relentlessly on the reef, going to work on the fish and the other dead creatures, breaking down the VX, cleaning up the mess with only the wind as its witness.