The Photographer,
He walked along the newly opened jetty
which had been closed for two months
while new safety posts had been put up.
Taught wires had replaced the old wooden
railings and these hummed as the cool Bay
Breeze blew in from the south.
The narrow top rail had been replaced by
a much wider one, this he noted would be
a boon to the fishermen who often used
the old “T†shaped jetty to fish off, and the
the new top rail would be much more
convenient to scale their catch instead of
having to use the old decking.
He reached the head of the jetty and leaned
on the new top rail, noticing the word “Kiaoraâ€Â
had been carved there and along the inner
edge of the rail notches had been cut to hold
some fisher mans rod, while they perhaps
baited their other rod or warmed his hands on
the cup of hot tea brought in a thermos fask.
The winds could be cruel to the hands of those
who braved their cold breath.
The man looked into the slate blue water of
the bay and noticed the schools of Hardy Head
swimming around the stout wooden supports
of the jetty, and wondered just how many had
been caught in the casting nets of those who had
fished earlier that morning. He had noticed as he
walked along the jetty, the tell tail wet patches
on the decking where the nets had been laid so
that the small fish could be picked up still
wriggling to be placed in a holding container,
later to have their heads snapped off and their
lifeless body’s expertly sewn onto a chemically
sharpened hook.
He looked across the white caps of Morton Bay
towards Stradbroke Island, (Quandamooka)
one of the largest sand islands in the world. A
watery looking sun was half hidden by the gray
white cloud which always seemed to float
over the island. Fingers of light, straight as
arrows buried themselves into the soft body
of the island warming it against the chill of the
early morning.
Dunwich, the islands only town was just visible
as a smudge on the far off shoreline. The mans eyes
strayed towards where he thought the home of
Kath Walker (Oodgeroo Noonuccal) would be.
He had met her once at her home and he had
read all of her poetry and short stories. He had
even called his home after the place where her
father used to sit on the beach, "Moongalba"
which means Sitting Down Place.
Kath had died some months before but he could
picture her in his mind teaching a group of school
children the ways of the Australian Aborigine. He
sighed; the spell was broken, two fishermen had
arrived to try their luck. One is company but three
is a crowd, he rephrased the old saying as he
made his way back long the jetty towards
his home to record what he had experienced on
his computer, and send it off to some poor unfortunate
who might get some pleasure from the sights and
memories he had so fondly recorded through the
lenses of his eyes, and developed onto the
photographic paper of his mind.
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