A Bad Night for Fishing

Lavender had been walking for ages when she came at last to Henley Square. It was late and all the restaurants were closed. There was a faint light coming from the jetty. She walked towards the light.

The light was from a fisherman's torch. Lavender could see a plastic bucket glowing in the torchlight, and she could see things moving in the bucket.

Hello, said Lavender to the fisherman. Have you....?

Caught anything? said the fisherman. No I havent. It's a bad night for fishing.

I wasn't going to ask you that, said Lavender. I was going to ask you if you'd seen any jellyfish in the water tonight. I'm looking for an Immortal Jellyfish in particular.

By Jingo! said the fisherman. You're an interesting specimen! Let me look at you.

Arrgggh! You creepy old man! cried Lavender, turning to run.

No wait, said the fisherman. I meant you are an interesting example of an impression in stone of a fossilised auger or screwpile shell and a member of the Turritellidae family. Stay here and chat with me a while.

Lavender was disarmed. She sat down beside the knowledgeable fisherman.

What is your interest in the Immortal Jellyfish? asked the fisherman.

I want to find it first, before Baby Pierre and Ageless find it, said Lavender.

I suppose that's as good a reason as any, said the fisherman. Why do they want to find it?

Baby Pierre wants to find it because he thought Ageless would like it, and Ageless wants to find it because Baby Pierre asked him to come on a quest. It's my quest too.

This Ageless, said the fisherman, is he a fossil, or a stone?

No silly, he's a lobster, said Lavender. A member of the Seafood family. He's ageless but he's not immortal. That's why Baby Pierre wants him to find it.

Does he want to be immortal? asked the fisherman. Some people think that drinking a concoction of immortal jellyfish will make them immortal, but that shows a distinct lack of scientfic logic.

Oh no, he doesn't want to DRINK it! said Lavender, shocked. He wants to meet it, that's all.

Very commendable, said the fisherman. Well, I can't help you, but I know who can.

Ooh! Who? said Lavender, excited.

Go back to the Esplanade. There's a veritable Parthenon of Sea Oracles there amongst the rocks. Oracular Seagulls, Crabs, Cuttlefish, Pelicans, you name it. Somewhere opposite house number, ummm, 291 I think, you'll find the Oracular Jellyfish. He'll know something.

Did you say 291? asked Lavender. Now I know I'm on the right track. That's Ageless's age, in the morning. Thanks fisherman.

Call me Gaius, said the fisherman, softly.

But Lavender wasn't listening. She was off.

Hallam's Walk

Hallam walked along Tennyson Beach. He liked to do it, every decade or so. Today he was in a red top and cut-off jeans. More comfortable than my Governor General outfit, he thought.

He looked out towards the horizon. Astonishingly, there was no horizon, today. The sea was one with the clouds which were pearly and gelatinous, all heaving gently. My dad would write a poem about this he thought, sourly. Or a saga, more like.

The sky above was a brilliant blue and the sun was warm. He felt sweaty even in his summer top. And he needed his cap, because the sun was at a low afternoon angle.

He sniffed the air. Pooh, he thought, iodine. Or is it ozone? No, ozone doesnt have a smell. It'll be this seaweed. He stared at the heaps of brown seaweed, sculpted into hillocks, cliffs and troll-like creatures by the tide.

The sea slopped up to the seaweed, warmly. Seagulls bobbed in the shallows facing away from the sun. They didn't appear to be doing anything other than bobbing. He wondered why they had chosen to bob there.

He didn't know much about seagulls. He saw a pelican flying low over the water, into the sun.
He didn't know much about pelicans either. I bet my dad did, he thought. I wish I'd been allowed to finish at Cambridge, instead of having to give up my studies to be his secretary. He sighed.

Still it was a nice day, and he had done pretty well for himself really. Governor of South Australia and then Governor General of Australia for a year after that. He decided to treat himself to a Farmers Union Iced Coffee at Noonies.

Jesus' Diary - Part 4

What do you think of this? asked Jesus next morning, showing me his diary.

Went to the beach with some friends, he had written. The tide was out. Saw some seagulls, walking on water. Or they may have been Crested Terns. Saw a girl swimming quite a way out. Hoped she wouldn't have her leg taken off by a shark. Later, saw her again and thought I may have been mistaken, she may have been a boy. Wondered if I would have had the thought about the shark if I'd thought I'd seen a boy.

That's good Jesus. Pliny would like the part about the Crested Terns. And I like your attempt at moral introspection. Do you think you may have gender issues?

No, I don't think so. But I did wonder. I would have had to see a boy swimming far out in the water to know the answer to that. Of course, if I had seen a boy and not had the thought about the shark, I still wouldn't know the answer. In fact I wouldn't even have thought of the question.

Jesus, I said. I can see that you are a very deep thinker. I think you should definitely keep up your diary.

I will, said Jesus. Thanks.

Jesus' Diary - Part 3

Would you two like to come to the beach with us this afternoon? I asked Jesus and Pliny the Elder.

The beach? said Pliny, looking doubtful.

Yes we would, said Jesus. I like going to the beach. Are we taking a picnic?

Yes we are, I said. Get ready. We're leaving at half past twelve.

Some time later we were walking along the beach at Semaphore, at low tide. Silvery channels of water dribbled into the sea, and seagulls stood in them, preening. We could see their reflections upside down under their feet.

Look, said Jesus. They look as though they're walking on water.

So they do, said Pliny. You are most observant. You would make a good natural historian.

Perhaps I would, sighed Jesus, but I never write anything down.

Well what's stopping you? I asked. I remember last year you were thinking of starting a diary.

I was, said Jesus. I even bought a diary. But I couldn't think of anything to write.

Nonsense, said Pliny. Just write down your observations.

Who would want to read them? asked Jesus.

Lots of people, said Pliny firmly.

Perhaps I will have another go, said Jesus.

Australia Day

It's Australia Day. In the afternoon we go to the beach. A blue sky and a warm strong flag-flapping hat-flipping wind at Grange.

As many people in the water as out. Forty people per hundred metres, I think.

They sit under vast no-sided tent pavillions, in canvas chairs, drinking, or shoulder-deep in water drinking pre-mixed drinks from cans. They play with small fat dogs.

Three sand flies march towards the waterline. Three seagulls peck at three half-eaten red-skinned apples on the sand. Four young women in swimsuits walk towards us, one with a pink parasol. Children carry fluoro boogie boards into the water. A blue and yellow fish kite flutters overhead.

Now there's a bare stretch of beach. The wind plaits the water like grass. A few wispy clouds curl up sportively.

A party spills on to the beach from a house. Young men play beach cricket with bottles and girls stand ankle-deep in the sea, drinking. The conversation: Where are you going? Europe. Just Europe? Yeah.

Two fat skuas sit on the sand looking sadly out to sea, a long way apart. The horizon is miles and miles away today.

Three passing girls stop momentarily. The one with blue lips says, leaning towards us, Happy Austraya Day!

Grange at Sunset

When it's hot, like this, we go to the beach at sunset. On Friday we went to Grange.

The sun sets at 8.30pm. At 8.20 the sky at the horizon is a pale shade of lemon. The sun is sinking fast, a brilliant orange. A two-masted boat darkens off shore, heads bob and kiss in the shoulder-deep water.

Old men and women in swimsuits gossip at the water's edge. Towels are dragged back from the incoming tide. Everyone's waiting for sunset.

The sea is a black and primrose mosaic, the sky at the horizon the colour of toffee, a streak of orange pink cloud stretches itself thin.

The sun is three quarters below the horizon, the sky is tomato red. Fourteen seagulls fly north at a great height through deep blue air, and the first star shows.

A single light shines from one mast of the boat, a flag flaps from the other. Someone moves on the deck.

A man on the shore squats to photograph the boat against the sun's last rays

Voices mingle with the waves. Six seagulls fly north up the gulf. The tomato red sky turns first to marmalade, and then to no colour at all. People pack up their towels and children and empty drink bottles. Time to leave the black sea to itself.

Aldinga Reef

this is what we did on New Year's Day.

we drove an hour down the coast to Aldinga parked at the top of a cliff near a bin. the bin smelled of old crayfish we climbed down the sixty wooden steps to the beach.

the beach was half sand half heaps of dry brown seaweed, not the place for a picnic. broken concrete steps at the bottom of the wooden steps not the place either, near an outlet too, not the place.

we walked out onto the yellow sandstone reef it was hard. we walked a long way out it was windy. we sat down on a rocky platform with the sea gurgling behind us an expanse of reef in front and in the distance frothy spume. at the edge of the reef many metres away stood the seagulls and skuas and cormorants or whatever it was that they were. they were looking out to sea oblivious.

we ate the food we had brought.

this was a zuccini fritata, leek and gruyere tart, green salad and some cherries. these were rich and soaked up admirably the Cockatoo Ridge sparkling wine which was pink. some wine spilled on the sandstone where it fizzed loudly. five people appeared in the distance far away under the high blue sky and climbed the steps.

we stood up walked around peered into rockpools poked around in them with a stick looking for signs of life. most of the crabs were dead in pieces one dead crab arranged tastefully as by Picasso in a tiny hole, cheese and rhubarb coloured pieces of crab, circular.

we squelched through polypy pools of tepid water to the edge where stood the birds facing out to sea looking for what birds look for there. one of us approached them carefully until getting too close they flew away and floated in the water some way off except for one which did not care enough to leave. when we moved off they came back except the one who was already there.

we turned squelching back towards the steps, different steps that did not look so steep. but sixty steps is sixty steps and it was a long way to the top.

from the top, you see the fault lines in the reef.

At the Interface

Another hot day. We went to Semaphore. We thought we might go in the water, and wore our swimming things just in case.

The sand was hot. We took off our shoes. How then had we known that the sand was hot? They were not proper shoes.

The sea was tepid and green. Fat people bobbed in the shallows. Three ladies and a man in a stockman's hat. Nine seagulls flew southwards over their heads. Eleven terns flew north. Perhaps I have remembered this wrong.

The terns looked like seagulls wearing unconvincing black hairpieces. Thirty nine of them stood on the shore. Something was afoot.

We walked towards the Semaphore jetty, in the water up to our knees. The middle of the jetty was missing. This was new. Boys were jumping off at the gap, and clambering up the other side. We could see them, in the distance.

Two yachts, on the near horizon, with cream and grey sails like moths' wings, seemed to touch one another lightly.

I looked down at the water and was shocked to see lines of Japanese calligraphy. It was seaweed, tiny brown and black pieces like brushstrokes, floating on the surface of the water. They said, if I read them correctly: Here is the interface, here, and here, and here.

We took the plunge. Immersed ourselves in the sea. It was cold, because our skin was hot. We gasped. And wallowed. Only the interface matters.

I flapped my hands under the water which moved like jelly.

The Aeolian Harp

What was your mother saying about the Aeolian harp? asked Pliny. And the seagulls?

Is that all you can say after reading my lovely description of the sea? I countered, somewhat miffed. What did you think of my spiders' legs stew? And my greygold waves backlit by the sun?

Jiggery pokery! said Pliny. I prefer a plain description. But I will acknowledge that you were trying very hard to paint the sea in words. Perhaps you should buy yourself a camera. However, I am interested in this Aeolian harp, and why it was silent on a windy day.

I don't know, Pliny. It used to hum noticeably when it was first constructed. I remember walking underneath it and thinking it might drive people mad. Perhaps it did. Perhaps they had to tighten up the wires and shut it up.

Ha ha, laughed Pliny. These Aeolian harps are never any good. A foolish Greek invention. I remember some lines of Coleridge:

...................this Aeolian lute,
Which better far were mute.

That's impressive, Pliny, you knowing Coleridge like that.

Oh yes, I am good friends with Coleridge. But what was it your mother said about the harp?

The seagulls never used to sit on it, but now they do
For see! the harp is covered with white seagull poo.