The night before they took the boat across to Tangalooma, the boy slept in Phil’s living room on a mattress on the floor.
He slept fitfully and was already awake, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, when his father stumbled out from the spare bedroom.
His father walked over to him, bent down and shook his shoulder. ‘Come on, mate. Get up.’
The boy sat up, and immediately was struck by how cold it had become.
‘Grab your things,’ his father said. ‘You going to shower?’
‘Should I?’
‘I’m going to.’
The boy decided he would too. He cleaned his teeth looking in the frosted mirror and scratched a shape in the mist with his fingertips.
When he was done he went to the kitchen where, around the mess of plants, his father had set two bowls of cornflakes and two glasses of orange juice. The boy drank the orange juice, forgetting he had just brushed his teeth, and almost gagged at the bitter taste. He forced it down anyway. He felt so sick after he could barely manage the cornflakes.
His father put their car keys and the keys to the padlock of their shack in a bowl on the kitchen bench. As the two of them stepped outside, lugging suitcases, the boy stopped and vomited into one of the potted plants on the verandah.
Phil, who was locking the door behind them, laughed aloud, but his father put a hand on his back and said, ‘You alright?’
The boy nodded. Spat.
‘You don’t need to worry, you know? It’s not that hard. And today especially is easy.’ His father’s voice was warm and pleasant. ‘I’ll just introduce you to a few folks and we’ll find you a place to sleep and we’ll be all set. There’s nothing required of you. Not for a while.’
The way his father’s moods swung from sympathetic to resentful, and the speed at which they did so, utterly confused the boy. Made him untethered to the world. Though his father’s heart was clearly in this speech, it did little to alleviate the boy’s deep fear. He was afraid that he would fail and that his poor performance would indicate that he was of little worth. He spat again into the dirt and the orange juice and cereal mixed with this brown made him want to keep throwing up, but he convinced himself not to.
They bundled into Phil’s car, a black Holden, with their things piled in the back, and the boy whispered a prayer. Phil heard him, and laughed.
‘What’re you afraid of?’ Phil said as he started the car.
The boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘All blokes have to do something for a living. You can’t rely on this old man here to support you the rest of your life.’ He turned to the boy’s father. ‘You got what? Ten good years left in you?’ He grinned. ‘Twelve?’
The boy, sitting behind his father, could not see the man’s expression, but he heard, ‘I reckon I got a few more than that.’
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ Phil said as he manoeuvred the car up the driveway and onto the street. ‘I remember when I first went out there I was nervous. But it went fine. It’s not that hard, really. Your dad’s right. It’s not like plumbing or something. Any old bugger can do this.’
‘Then why don’t more people do it?’ the boy asked.
Phil laughed, a sound the boy realised was native to the man. ‘The smell, mainly. Don’t know. It’s physically hard sometimes, I guess. Plus the blood. But it’s no worse than being a butcher.’
The boy said nothing, but as the car stopped at a set of traffic lights Phil turned around and looked him up and down. The boy squirmed beneath his gaze. ‘You afraid you’re small like your old man? Don’t worry about that. This bloke here –’ and he clapped the boy’s father on the shoulder ‘– is one of the best I’ve ever seen. And he’s only got one good hand.’
The boy could see his old man’s fist clenched by his side, between the car door and the seat.
‘You’ll be fine, mate,’ his father added.
They drove across a bridge, the water below dark in the pre-dawn. There were other cars already on the road. Their headlights hurt the boy’s eyes, making him squint. The few skyscrapers in the city were almost completely devoid of light. A few neon hotel signs stood out as they drove and the boy watched the barrier of the bridge flick past his eyes and become blurred. He did his best to lose focus.
They drove alongside the river and eventually they came to a jetty, a boat bobbing beside it. They went a little further and parked the car. The boy mimicked the older men as they walked with their suitcases dangling over their shoulders, one hand securing it by the handle. The boy almost stumbled beneath the weight.
They walked the short distance back to the boat. It was mostly white except for green splotches of mould near its base and blue trim along the edges. There was ample space at the rear for people to stand and there was shelter from rain and sun. Several men were already on board, and as the trio approached the boy could hear the low murmur of these men merging with the sound of the running motor.
‘Walter!’ said a man as they reached the side of the boat. He grinned at the boy’s father. ‘Bloody cold this morning, no?’
His father nodded. ‘Rob. This is my son, Sam.’
Rob laughed and extended a hand to haul the boy aboard. ‘Coming with us, are you?’
The boy nodded. ‘Nice to meet you.’
This made the man laugh mightily, and he was still laughing as he reached down to help the boy’s father and Phil aboard.
Phil clapped the man in a bear hug and lifted him from the deck, jiggling him up and down as though emptying a sack. The man chortled and choked.
There were other men on board whom the boy was introduced to with his father’s hand at the back of his neck. He stood then, uncertain, near the front and watched his father navigate conversations, then followed his father below deck to stow their suitcases.
Back on deck, he watched as more men turned up in their cars. Rob seemed to know everybody’s name and story and greeted them all with the same warmth with which he’d greeted the boy. The boy felt at once welcomed and forgotten.
Soon there were twenty men on board. Rob turned to the boy and said, ‘Hope you packed your balls, mate. It’s set to be a tough one,’ and grinned the worst grin the boy could imagine.