Chapter Five

The lady looked to her left. All she could see of her first ever Tinder date was a black Greenpeace T-shirt, a pair of binoculars and a mouth constantly in motion spraying out facts about whales. Tedious facts. It was like being in a David Attenborough documentary, but worse, as it featured a whiny Australian narrator who had nothing interesting to say. At least she was out of the house.

Her daughter had encouraged her to sign up for Tinder, probably hoping it would stop her repeated phone calls on some flimsy pretence or other. And it was worth it to see the whales, who were providing all the entertainment as they migrated back towards the cold southern waters. Up here, on the brow of Cape Byron, the lighthouse usually grabbed most of the attention, the Instafamous backdrop to incessant selfies, but today all eyes faced the other direction, out to sea. Conditions were perfect for whale watching, the ocean a mirror of blue and not a wisp of wind to disperse the plumes as they shot skywards.

She knew Mr Tinder had been coming here for years with his folding chairs and his Thermos flask and the pastries from the quaint patisserie in Bangalow. She also knew there had been a succession of women sitting in this chair before her, but she was happy to play along. Whether he would end up with the sex he presumably wanted she wasn’t sure, but she doubted it. She hadn’t been intimate since her husband died almost five years ago. Would she even remember what to do?

Her attention returned to the monotonous soundtrack. ‘… you can tell them apart because the southern right whale has two plumes, whereas the—’

A whale exploded into view right in front of them, arcing out of the water in what seemed like slow motion. It was so close to shore she could see the barnacles stuck to its white belly. The whale twisted and crashed down on its back with a splash that sent water flying high into the air. The crowd gasped and pointed in unison. Even motormouth stopped talking.

She lifted the binoculars and tried to focus on where the whale had been. Another whale breached but she missed it entirely – the binoculars seemed to point anywhere but where she wanted to look. Instead, she saw something red floating in the water. She tried to find it with her naked eyes, but could see nothing other than the wash of the whales. She lifted the binoculars again, but it was just blue everywhere she looked. Did she imagine it?

She tapped Mr Tinder on the shoulder, but he didn’t notice.

‘Humpback whales can weigh up to thirty tonnes …’

She tapped him again, harder. ‘Could you just shut up for a minute? I saw something red floating near the whales. A surfboard, maybe.’

He trained his binoculars to where she pointed. ‘There’s nothing there. Binoculars can be tricky if you’re not used to them. Did I tell you individual humpbacks can be recognised by the markings on their tails …’

Exasperated, she fiddled with the binoculars again, and a red blob came into focus. It was a surfboard. ‘There,’ she said, pointing. ‘It’s just floating in the middle of nowhere. There’s nobody on it.’

‘So what?’ he said. ‘It’s just a surfboard.’

A short time later she was striding down the road away from the lighthouse. She’d had her first and, as far as she was concerned, last argument with Mr Tinder. He didn’t think it was worth reporting a drifting surfboard, but she had an uneasy feeling. Why would anybody leave their surfboard to float away? He did at least point out, albeit with bad grace, where she would find the Marine Rescue office. This Tinder thing was rubbish. His condoms would be remaining in their wrappers. And she’d tasted far better Portuguese tarts.

The office was easy to find once you knew where it was, tucked behind one of the old lighthouse keeper’s cottages down the hill. The door was ajar, and she heard voices crackling from radios. Inside she saw a small desk on which rested a pair of callused feet in thongs. The feet were connected to a pair of knobbly knees and the knees to a heavily overweight man whose navy singlet was under serious tension as it stretched over his large belly. He and the chair looked to have been moulded in one piece.

The man saw her and took his feet off the desk. ‘The toilets are around the back past the café, love.’

‘It’s you I want, I think, although perhaps I’m just being a worry wart.’

Moments later, Harry had grabbed his portable radios and was hobbling up the hill with his walking stick, trying to keep up with her as they headed towards the lighthouse.

When they arrived, Mr Tinder had packed away the catering and was obviously still sore from the argument. Harry scanned the water with his binoculars.

‘Sorry,’ said Mr Tinder to Harry. ‘I’m sure you’ve more important things to do than to look for some lost surfboard.’

Harry put down his binoculars and sized up Mr Tinder. ‘Next time you come off your surfboard I’ll be sure to finish doing the crossword and scratching my arse before I look for you.’ He resumed gazing through the binoculars. ‘If I look for you at all.’

Mr Tinder, muttering something inaudible, packed up the chairs, collected the rest of his gear and walked off without saying goodbye. She didn’t mind. It was a lovely day, and he was a dick. She should have swiped left. Or was it right?

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ said Harry when he spotted the board. ‘There aren’t many red mals like that. I think it might be Patrick O’Shaughnessy’s. I’ll give him a call.’

He made the phone call, but there was no answer. He took a few steps away from her and reached for his radio. ‘Hey, this is Harry, could you send a couple of your fellas on jet skis to check something out for me?’