Chapter Twenty Two

 April/ May 2003

We travel south to Coral Bay, to turquoise seas and pristine beaches.

   The air conditioning in the hostels is drying out my throat. I am constantly hoarse. I drink cartons of orange juice daily. A Canadian man we share a dorm with tells us he likes the AC, it reminds him of home where they sleep in cold air with piles of blankets.

We are walking out of the hostel. I'm wearing loose light trousers. Steve is behind me on the busy pavement. A man glances in my direction. Steve pulls the back of my trousers. I turn to see him looking down into them, at my behind in a thong. His smile is smug and proprietary. 

   'Stop it,' I say.

   'But it's pretty.' We walk along a few paces more before he lets go.

We tell each other jokes one night.

   'If anyone asks you if you like clubbing,' I say, 'say, "yeah, I hate baby seals "'

   Steve laughs, almost choking on his drink. He uses my phone to text my joke to his friend at home.

   'Did you tell him it's my joke?' I say.

   'No.'

   'Why not?'

   'Does it matter?'

   Yes it does. I want him to show me off to his friends, to tell them what a brilliant and funny girlfriend he has. Instead he wants to be the brilliant and funny one. 

We are by the beach. Two pelicans stand with their beaks wide open, drinking the water from a sprinkler. We walk down onto the sand. I love how it feels under my feet, soft, warm, yielding.

   He runs his hands over my body, slipping his fingers down the back of my bikini bottoms.

   'So when are you going to let me get in here?' he says.

   'Never.' I push his hands away.

   'If you really loved me you'd let me.'

   Would I? I don't think I would. But I have no idea what I'd do if I really loved him.

We travel on to Monkey Mia. The hostel here is caravans in a field. We share with a German girl called Tania who hates Australia and can't wait to go home. The bread here is too floppy, she says. She doesn't think a sun tan suits her. She's scarred from mosquito bites.

   We talk about the war in Iraq. 

   'Would you be called up to fight? Tania asks Steve.

   'I'm too old,' he says.

    'How old are you?' she says.

    'Twenty seven. But with my youthful good looks...'

    Tania rolls her eyes. 'Yeah right.'

    'How old are you?' Steve says.

    'Nineteen. How old are you?' she says to me.

    'Twenty three.'

    'Oh, I was travelling with some twenty three year olds, and they said that's the best age to be. No responsibilities, you can do whatever you like.'

    'Yeah.' I smile. 'I suppose so.' But I don't feel like I can do whatever I like.

   

We go to the beach where the dolphins come to be fed. The Lonely Planet tells me that people wearing bright colours are more likely to be chosen to hand the dolphins fish. I wear my stripey fairy top and blue shorts.

   'Well, no one's going to miss you in that,' says Steve.

   We stand in the sea with a group of fellow tourists as the dolphins leap towards us. Their long faces are wise and gentle. I wonder what they could tell me if they could speak.

   I am not chosen to feed the dolphins.

We go on a tour to see stromatolites. Living rocks, the most ancient form of life there is. They stand in bulky formations in the water. The tour guide says they were here thousands of years before us and they'll be here thousands of years after we've gone. I think perhaps he envies them. I don't. I am almost scared by such permanence.

   We see dugongs, fat sea cows grazing on sea grass. The guide says they may be the origin of mermaid myths. There is nothing human looking about them.

   On the way back we visit some kind of small sea life place. A sea snake swims under netting. It rears up suddenly and I jerk back.

   'It can't get you,' says Steve.

    Every one laughs.

    He whispers to me that it's not the first sea snake I've met.

We cook on barbecues in the evenings. A family show us the shell fish they have collected to cook. They are tiny, slimy looking. Steve tries to politely suggest they might not be good for eating. The family seem delighted with their catch.

   We cook sausages. 

    'Is it nice eating sausages that don't spit at you for once?' says Steve. He smirks at me.

   Afterwards we walk down the beach, a long way in the dark until between some dry plants he pulls me down into the sand and lifts up my skirt.

   He smiles as he looks down at me and it feels like something is changing.

 On our last morning I go back to the dolphins for one last try at feeding them. I'm still not chosen.

We go to a place where you can sandboard on the dunes. 

   We have to wear helmets. The instructor tells us the sand is hard, it can hurt us. It moves, slowly the dunes travelling across the landscape. He makes it sound like a dangerous creature.

   It's like surfing. I focus on my balance, my posture as I fly down the sand. It's just a question of control. I am in control of my own body for the first time since Alice Springs. I never want this to stop.

   'You're good at this,' says Steve.

   He breaks my concentration. I fall, hitting the sand like hitting concrete. I tumble to the bottom of the dune. 

   'Are you all right?' Steve hugs me. I am grateful for his arms around me, absorbing the pain.