Making Luck In The Morning

They wake up next morning in a Swansea Beach Chalet. The night has been paid for.

Now, says Gaius, we must get going. Where is Bay of Fires?

What's the hurry? says Schopenhauer yawning. Isn't checkout at ten?

You look awful, says Unni. Doesn't he, Arthur?

Yes, he looks green. Arthur knows that look from the inside.

Are you going to vomit? asks Unni.

I don't think so, says Schopenhauer, yawning even more widely.

Good, says Gaius. On our bikes then!

It's not far to Bicheno. They get there by morning tea time.

How does Schopenhauer feel now?

Unni looks over her shoulder.

She can't see him. Where is he?

Probably stopped behind a tree, says Gaius. We'll have to wait. How annoying. What's there to do here?

Penguins says Unni, flipping though screens on her phone. Oh no, wait, they spend all day fishing. You only see them at night. But hey! there's a blowhole.

We've seen a blowhole, says Arthur.

Not this blowhole, says Unni. It's a proper one.

You go, says Gaius. I'll wait for our friend.

..........

At the blowhole:

A few tourists are standing about.

Spoooof! a huge spurt of water forces it way up through the blowhole.

Hissss! Gurgle-urgle. It sucks itself down.

Wow! says Unni. It's pretty amazing.

I've seen bigger, says Arthur.

So have I, says a tourist from somewhere overseas that has way bigger blowholes.

........

On the water in Great Oyster Bay:

The leathery twist of seaweed is tossed in the turbulent current of the deep water channel between Freycinet Peninsula and Schouten Island.

.......et voilà! Schouten Island! says de Freycinet.

Very nice, says Captain Louttit. Does anyone live there?

No, says de Freycinet. Only caretakers. But you see fishermen and sea kayakers coming and going.

Good fishing? asks Captain Louttit.

Flathead, striped trumpeter, says de Freycinet. Rock lobster.

Our own kind, says Captain Louttit, shaking his head. Why do they stay?

Je ne sais pas, says de Freycinet. But where can they go?

The two mariners think silently about this question.

We are lucky, I suppose, says Captain Louttit.

Bien sûr, says de Freycinet. But I am a liberal. I believe we make our own luck.

That's what ducks think, says Captain Louttit darkly.

They are sailing rather close to Schouten Island. A large roller takes them. Their delicate craft is dragged through the shallows fetching up on the sand, yellow stalk upwards.