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.
Showing posts with label toffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label toffee. Show all posts
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Easter Story 4
What do fish do at Easter time? They know nothing of Lent.
The question had not crossed the minds of Pliny and Nostradamus yesterday. They went to Port Noarlunga for a picnic and a walk beside the sea.
They sat near the rocks and ate salmon rolls, rock melon and grapes. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. It was 24 degrees. What perfect Easter weather we are having, they said.
They walked towards the southern cliffs and the Onkaparinga mouth, carrying their shoes in a bag. The reef was under water and only a faint line of splashes showed where it was. The sea, black green and blue green out there, was a pale translucent green at the shore, stretching up like toffee before dumping loudly on the sand.
When they reached the river they turned with it and sat down facing the opposite cliffs, on a small ridge of sand at the edge of the water. The tide was coming in. The river was racing inland. Small white fish were speeding along with it in mid stream. But something was not right with the small white fish.
After some time Pliny and Nostradamus realised that they were not even fish. They were just scum. It is less fascinating to watch scum swimming past. Pliny turned around.
Between her and the sea was a low sand hill, and metres away, on the horizon of the low sand hill were a hundred Hitchcockian seagulls. Pliny turned back to look at the water swirling into a tiny inlet just near her feet. The ripples and cross currents formed patterns like fish scales edged with golden light.
They got up and walked back along the edge of the river towards Port Noarlunga. Along a narrow churned up track between the water and the sand hills they passed fishing families with runaway dogs and sulky sons and daughters. The track opened up into sticky mud flats half covered in low green succulents with swollen red tips. The water was flat, reflective.
But not so reflective. Pliny and Nostradamus could see grey and brown fish in it, of small to medium size.
The closer they got to the bridge at the end of the sand hill trail, the more of these fish they could see. Nostradmus stopped to tell a fisherman that he had just seen a number of fish some way back. There's plenty here too, said the fisherman. But they're not biting today.
And they were not. There were hundreds of them in suspension all pointing southwards, and they were not biting today.
The question had not crossed the minds of Pliny and Nostradamus yesterday. They went to Port Noarlunga for a picnic and a walk beside the sea.
They sat near the rocks and ate salmon rolls, rock melon and grapes. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. It was 24 degrees. What perfect Easter weather we are having, they said.
They walked towards the southern cliffs and the Onkaparinga mouth, carrying their shoes in a bag. The reef was under water and only a faint line of splashes showed where it was. The sea, black green and blue green out there, was a pale translucent green at the shore, stretching up like toffee before dumping loudly on the sand.
When they reached the river they turned with it and sat down facing the opposite cliffs, on a small ridge of sand at the edge of the water. The tide was coming in. The river was racing inland. Small white fish were speeding along with it in mid stream. But something was not right with the small white fish.
After some time Pliny and Nostradamus realised that they were not even fish. They were just scum. It is less fascinating to watch scum swimming past. Pliny turned around.
Between her and the sea was a low sand hill, and metres away, on the horizon of the low sand hill were a hundred Hitchcockian seagulls. Pliny turned back to look at the water swirling into a tiny inlet just near her feet. The ripples and cross currents formed patterns like fish scales edged with golden light.
They got up and walked back along the edge of the river towards Port Noarlunga. Along a narrow churned up track between the water and the sand hills they passed fishing families with runaway dogs and sulky sons and daughters. The track opened up into sticky mud flats half covered in low green succulents with swollen red tips. The water was flat, reflective.
But not so reflective. Pliny and Nostradamus could see grey and brown fish in it, of small to medium size.
The closer they got to the bridge at the end of the sand hill trail, the more of these fish they could see. Nostradmus stopped to tell a fisherman that he had just seen a number of fish some way back. There's plenty here too, said the fisherman. But they're not biting today.
And they were not. There were hundreds of them in suspension all pointing southwards, and they were not biting today.
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