Chapter 5

 

 

At lunchtime the following day, Ewen rang Lon and told him the news. They decided to search for a wave.

 

Lon drove his red BMW sedan past Cottesloe’s Norfolk Pines, past the surf lifesaving clubhouse and pulled into the only spare bay in the Cove car park.

On the horizon, Rottnest Island, as low as a floating log, hinged blue sky to a sedate sea. Half a dozen grain and oil tankers, anchored three kilometres offshore, sat tethered against the gentle easterly, waiting their turn for Kwinana.

“How many surfers can one reef break handle?” asked Ewen.

Lon counted heads at the left-hander. “Twenty-five.”

“Keep driving. Let’s find a beach-break at Leighton.”

They drove past the excavators and dump trucks parked up for the weekend at Isolators. Come Monday, the machines would return to rebuilding the foreshore embankment washed away by an unprecedented coastal storm surge.

At each beach car park they passed, vehicles overflowed into no-parking zones. Ewen checked the dashboard clock and pushed the power button on the car radio.

“Journalists and the news,” said Lon. “Can’t help themselves.”

…the bushfire, reportedly the work of an arsonist, is now fully contained.

Ewen glanced at the southern horizon. Haze but no rolling plumes.

The proposed mandatory increase in superannuation contributions to twelve per cent has encountered more opposition than ever before. But this time not only from employers, now it’s the employees reacting angrily to it—

Ewen stabbed the button.

“No news,” said Lon. “We are feeling dour today.”

“I have bugger all super. I don’t need reminders.”

“Do a run.”

“Drug running ain’t what it used to be, and you know it.”

 

After finally pulling into a vacant parking bay, opposite the walk bridge, they tramped the sand track to the foredune’s ridge.

People packed the beach—migrating lemmings headed straight for the sea.

Ewen peeked at the sun welding its way across the blue sky. The salt air smelt like corroded metal.

“The future,” said Lon. “Global warming. Mankind returns to the ocea—”

“And drowns. Non-swimmers sucked into summer rips. Or floats upon an inflatable crocodile and gets blown halfway to Rotto by a howling, red-hot easterly.”

“Well the wind’s gentle today and there’s also no rips. And, fortunately, there is the odd peak. Thus, we best get you wet.”

 

Boards underarm, they stood at the shoreline and checked the two-foot waves.

“Lucky the Black Dog can’t swim,” said Lon.

“I’m pissed. Not depressed.”

They pushed off from the shallows, and paddled in rhythm, two mates synced by the sea.

They sat out the back. Ewen rolled off his board, floated belly up and stared into the blue. His sunscreen smelt like a chemist shop. Water lapped across his chest. Sunshine, like a hot steam towel, smothered his face. He lowered his ears into the cool sea. Mother Earth creaked.

Lon kicked him. “I think what we saw before was a freak set.”

Ewen shook the water from his ears. “That wouldn’t surprise me one bit. My life lately has turned turtle.”

“You’re a journalist. Your speech and writing are similar: clichés. Over dramatizing a touch aren’t you. Your girlfriend declares she’s batting for the other side, and leaves.”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m desperately trying not to—Huie is onto it.” Lon pointed seaward. “He’s sent us a couple.”

They paddled and caught a wave each.

After the short ride, they returned to the line-up, sat, didn’t talk. Hands swirled the ocean. Eyes stared seaward.

Ewen rolled off his board into another starfish float.

Lon eventually asked, “So what now?”

“She moves out. I go back to work on Monday. And the world keeps generating interesting stories, with luck.”

“I know today is totally Janet, but a story surfaced from the street last night.”

Ewen trod water.

“Perth. Awash with Number Four. Heroin so pure it’s bumping the junkies off. The police may call a press conference tonight. The gear needs to be cut, and the cops are actually going to tell the public.”

“How many ODs?”

“Four in forty-eight hours.”

Ewen draped his arms over his board.

“Suspected ODs at the moment. But half a chance they’re all legit.” Lon pointed. “Look.” A half-metre long silver fish leisurely skimmed across the sandy bottom. “Probably a Jewy. Sensational.”

The fish became a slim shadow in the distance.

Ewen eyed his mate. “Why would high grade smack hit the streets when the big bucks come from cutting it?”

“Because it’s touching down at rock bottom prices. Ice is out. H is in.”

 

 

When they were back on land, while tying the boards to the BMW’s roof racks, a sandy haired girl in shorts and singlet ran the footpath towards them.

“Remember her?” asked Ewen. “She lives in Cott.”

“How could I forget. Your office Christmas party. The girl from Merredin.” Lon paused. “There she stood explaining hay carting and helping at the farm over Christmas, and I’m thinking she’s probably loading those gigantic round bales, by hand. Shit, she’s built.” He turned to his friend. “Single?”

“Yes.”

“No hook ups at the office? She is attractive, in a butchy way.”

“The office is fairly certain her and cocksure Samuel had a one-nighter.”

“He didn’t boast?”

“The exact opposite. The next day at work, he slunk around. An absolute shell compared to his normal animated self. Something happened and I’m sure he’s not over it yet.”

Bernadette noticed Ewen, waved and shouted, “Shrivel Dick.”

Lon whispered, “A classic overt sexual advance. What do you have to lose? You’re already the shell of your former self. How shelless can you become?”

“All right,” said Bernadette halting before them. Her glistening skin smelt like vanilla. “Brilliant day for a run. Hot and humid. Love it. Sweat the gunk out. Gets me—”

“B,” said Ewen, “do you remember Lon?”

“Of course. The gay guy.”

Lon leant in. “And where did you hear that?”

“You.”

“The Christmas party?”

Bernadette nodded.

“I should give up the piss.”

“I wouldn’t remember you otherwise.”

“Thanks for the kind words.”

“Not many gay men in the bush where I come from.”

“Wrong.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’re not gay are you, Ewen?”

He shook his head.

“Of course not, you parade around with the Lord’s lawyer.”

“Used to,” interrupted Lon.

“True?” she asked, her face beaming.

Ewen nodded.

“Don’t throw yourself off a bridge, she’s not worth it.”

“Maybe, B, I’m the one who broke it off.”

“I doubt that. You’d hang onto a crack whore.”

“Where are you running to, B?” asked Ewen.

“Freo.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“I doubt that. Anyway, I’ve a story to write.”

“The heroin deaths?”

“No, the boat people. I’ve gotta talk the boss into flying me to Broome.”

She pointed at their blank expressions. “Jesus, Ewen, you’re a bloody reporter. You’ve gotta keep up with the news.”

“I’m having a disagreeable morning. Which may be getting worse.”

Bernadette didn’t bite. She rarely did. She enjoyed watching others snap their teeth. “Customs nabbed eight boats off Ashmore Reef, and late this morning hauled five hundred and fifty refugees into Broome. Offshore detention scrapped and in sails twenty thousand illegals trying to reach our shores in the last seven months. That’s news.” She winked at Ewen and lowered her sunglasses. “Might meet you in town tonight. Let’s face it, Ewen, with your plain looks and dress, only a country girl could love you.” And she ran off.

“Worth a shot,” said Lon.

“What, the story?”

“No. Her. She’s honest. At least you’d understand where you stood, probably to the minute.” Lon paused. “You might get roughed up a bit, but not as much as WA’s minority government dealing with the boat people.”

“Labor’s gunna get pineappled at this election.”