Levels Of Luck

Camus returns with a bag full of takeaway.

That smells good, says Gaius. What did you get?

Black bean noodles, says Camus. 

He hands Gaius a noodle box, filled with hot noodles.

Eat up, says Camus. I've already had mine.

Gaius eats his noodles, while Terence tells Camus about the stick and the poem.

Where is it? asks Camus.

Over there, in the hard sand, says Gaius. 

Isn't the tide coming in? asks Camus.

Yes, says Gaius.

Wah! cries Terence. My poem will be ruined.

You should have taken a photo, says Camus. 

It may not be too late, says Gaius. Go and take one.

Come with me, Terence, says Camus. 

Camus and Terence walk down the beach to the hard sand where the poem was written.

What a piece of luck, says Camus, taking his phone out.

No, it's too late! says Terence.

A wave has washed in.

That's what I meant, says Camus. My name is obliterated.

Write it again, says Terence.

No time, says Camus.

Click.

What does it say now? asks Terence.

"a peregrine falcon has died/ someone gave it the chocolate of death/ who?/ a man" reads Camus.

A man called nothing? says Terence. 

If you like, says Camus. An everyman. 

It was YOU, says Terence.

Come, says Camus. I bought you a red drink from the noodle bar where I bought the noodles.

Yay! says Terence, forgetting about the ruination.

He returns to sit beside Gaius, and drink his Ribena.

He thinks about the Tzeets, on a ferry, watching a movie.

Lucky them.

......

Meanwhile the Spirit of Tasmania has chugged out of Geelong.

It is churning its way across Bass Strait, at this moment.

The Tzeets are on top, near the sticking-up parts.

Yikes! It's so windy!

They cling to the sticking-up parts, for dear life.