How not to die 101

 Raging storm here tonight ... the crashing of branches on the roof as fronts move through and the chill of a nasty sou-westerly.

It's been just over a year since (and you know the rest of the sentence wherever you sit on the globe). Right before our state government shut down regional borders and restricted travel, a few randoms turned up at the inlet where I live. Their thinking was that since this is one of the more remote places in the state, free of people and other anxieties, that it was a good destination to ride out what we all thought would be a month or so of this pandemic. Heh.

Anyway, a man turned up here in his camper van. He's a regular Bibbulmum track walker who normally lives in the city. We sat on the verandah one day and chatted. We were both a bit frazzled. He was contemplating returning to the city and I'd been consigned to teaching via zoom for the rest of semester. He started telling me a bit about his life. His brother had died in what was "a bit of an odd manner".

*Sarah's ears prick up*

Apparently this man's brother was about to go on a fishing trip and needed some worms for bait. The previous night, he'd had a yarn with someone at the pub about how to catch worms. So what you do right, is cut the female end off an extension cord and push it into the earth, then plug the male end into a power socket and turn it on. This punter told old mate's brother that the voltage through the soil would force the subterranean worms to the surface and that he could just go around and pick them up.

Perfect! So simple! So, he followed the punter's instructions to the letter. Unfortunately, when he went out in the morning to collect the worms, he was bare footed and had left the power on.

Boomer meets Selkie

 In the gloaming hours, those hours between dog and wolf, I was woken by my dog. She was barking, howling, at an ageing kangaroo kicked out by his mob and condemned to a life ending by the inlet. They both stared at each other, an old boy roo and my dog. After hours, indeed years, the boomer took off and chased the dog along the track.

"Look at Insta"

 

Cockle bottle

 A baby cockle walks into a bottle:

Just found this in an old bottle collection that we are collating. The very image stinks of poetics and story telling, yes? 'Double shell', said a friend who understands filter feeders. 'No octopus would ever get to this cockle.' She paused. 'It would have been safe from predators for  its whole life.' We were cooking dinner together. We looked at the bottle again. 'It's just so sad,' she said. 'Its whole life ...'

Broke Ness Monster

Look. I'm more than a bit bothered by this talk of monsters.

 

I mean, it's bullshit right? A freshie at Broke Inlet, indeed an endangered and protected Johnson River Croc sighted on the Southern Ocean.
 

A meta mayday

 Through the deep sand track bordered by blood root

he towed the boat, bouncing on its trailer, to the water's edge.

He backs up to a stony boat ramp, peppered with blue bathroom tiles and asbestos

scattered to ward off the clay.

Tilts up the motor, pushes the boat off its rollers

until it sploshes into the water.

Checks his nets are pulled over all neat.

First set of the season.

Smoke rises lazy from a chimney to the north.

He can hear her chopping fire wood in the still wind,

the sound of her axe cutting through still air.

May Day and the inlet season begins.

Motor rumbles into life, peaceably.

Watch for the rocks.

Watch for the rocks.

Chug chug with the prop lifted high.

It dies ... pull again.

Birds call their evening alarm and drizzle

slides from his water proofs. 

Choke: check

Fuel pump: check.

The fisherman knows from the smell that she's burning green peppermint  wood.

'Brooom!' and the gentle hum of a 4 stroke behaving itself.

Jam it into reverse and back away.

Turn the tiller to port, jam it into ahead.

And off he goes

through the labyrinth of stones

then he fires up the throttle to go set the nets.