Grandma wants to go fishing today. I seriously think she won’t manage getting in and out of a boat, and I offer to stay home with her, but she is determined.

“I’ve always fished and I don’t stop now. Only thing is, I can’t see that damned nylon trace to thread the hooks. You’ll have to do that for me.”

Will’s outside in the half-dark, helping Grandpa load the boat. Last night, they got the gear out of the garage, life jackets, rods, knives, cutting boards, two boxes full of hooks and stuff and some towels, and left it all on the verandah because of the overnight dew. Then, guess what, Grandpa and Grandma lit the kerosene lanterns and said they were going to teach us some chords on the guitars.

“The basic E minor chord first,” says Grandma.

That is amazingly exciting. Will has the smaller red guitar because his fingers fit the frets. I have the big one that sounds dreamy mellow, like chocolate and cream. They show us three finger positions and then we actually play and sing Dad’s song about the old lady who swallows a fly. It is really awesome. Afterwards, we both have crease lines across the tips of our left fingers, but Grandma says the skin will harden up soon enough. I think it already has. If we could stay home today I’d do more practice. I try that on Grandma, but she just says, “Plenty of time tonight.”

Incidentally, the bread turned out to be excellent. I’m making meat sandwiches with it while Grandma fills bottles of water and lemon cordial for the picnic box.

The bellbirds are singing their hearts out. They have a long day, beginning before dawn and ending after dark, and it would be cool if you knew what they were saying. The chiming echoes from one side of the bay to the other and I think maybe someone could make a recording that is part orchestra and part bellbird sound. It shouldn’t be too difficult.

What is going to be difficult is getting Grandma into the boat. I’ve been in a boat before and I know how this works. The boat goes in the water and we all climb over the side. But even with the three of us pushing, Grandma won’t be able to do that.

I carry out the picnic box, the last thing to go on board. Well, I think it’s last, but Grandpa sends me back for the low stool in the bathroom and a kitchen chair. I wonder why he wants to take furniture on a fishing trip, but he sets them up beside the boat. Well, how about that? Grandma is going on board before the boat gets launched.

Will gets into the boat to help her from that side. Grandpa and I are on each arm to guide her up onto the stool, then the chair, then over the edge into the boat. With Will’s help she settles in one of the seats and yells, “Ahoy, you landlubbers! Let’s put to sea!”

Because I’m slightly sunburned from swimming, I’m wearing a hat borrowed from Grandma, the hideous T-shirt and the gross sneakers with holes and, oh yes, my very old jeans. Normally I wouldn’t be seen dead in these but Grandpa says sunlight is stronger on water than on land, so it pays to cover up. On top of the shirt goes a more-than-hideous life jacket, and we’re ready. Grandpa drives the car with the trailer-with-boat-with-Grandma-on-it out onto the road and then reverses down the access path to the beach.

He has chosen this time of the morning because the tide is right: almost fully out, the sea is at a place where the beach drops away steeply. He drives the car so that the back tyres are just in the water, then we all get out. Grandpa loosens the rope that holds the boat on the trailer. It slips back, back, with Grandma giving advice, until it’s off the trailer and floating. Grandpa wades out to hold the boat. He turns it around so the back is facing us. “Okay, boyo. Take the car and trailer up the beach and park it by the road. Melissa, you climb on board.”

“How? I’ll get wet!”

Obviously, he can’t hear me, and neither can Grandma.

I yell louder. “I’ll get my jeans wet!”

Will is already in the car, and the noise of the gear change sends a shiver down my spine. Bet they can’t hear that, either. The empty trailer rattles as it bumps over the stones, and over the noise I hear Grandpa yell, “You waiting for the next tide? Stop dreaming, girl!”

There’s no way you can pull up the legs of skinny jeans. Even with the back of the boat pushed into the shallows, I am wet to the knees.

“Step onto the landing board and over the stern. Hurry up.” That’s Grandma’s voice.

“All right, all right!” I yell back.

“Oh, my!” she says. “The princess got out on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

I climb into the boat. “The bottoms of my jeans are soaking!’ I explain.

“That’s the sea for you.” She waves her hand. “But look at it this way, if it was the top of your jeans wet, you’d have some explaining to do.”

I have to laugh. “Grandma, I can’t believe you said that!”

She wags a finger at me. “Girlie, bear this in mind. I know what it’s like to be thirteen but you don’t know what it’s like to be eighty-two.”

“Fourteen, Grandma. I am fourteen and I’ll soon be fifteen.” I want to add that she lived in the age of the dinosaurs and my world is entirely different, but I can’t be bothered putting all that into a yell.

“Whatever,” she says. “A year or two makes little difference when you’re my age. Now come over here. No, not that close, I don’t want you dripping on me. Hand me the tackle box and I’ll get you to make some nylon traces.”