The Bay Page 9

  Tina decided to head home for a nap. A morning surf didn’t appeal since the wind was offshore and the swell was down. She strolled over to the cliff-top railing and peered out to sea. Sometimes below Cape Beacon she’d see sharks cruising, but today the seascape belonged to a lazily drifting turtle and a scatter of floating seagulls waiting for something to happen. It wasn’t the whale season and the dolphins were probably off Tiny Bay.

  She turned and leaned against the railing and ran her eye over the few buildings and parking lot she privately called her own, even though she was well aware everything belonged to the state. Everything that is, except the great love she had for the place and the job. It was a job that fulfilled two of her great passions, a love of the sea and nature, and a fascination with local history, not just the events that made history, but the people who gave it life.

  At school and university Tina had agonised about career paths until activities with the uni bushwalking club had made her more aware of national parks and the satisfaction so many of the rangers seemed to get from their work. Then the way ahead was obvious. But she had never dreamed of one day winning a posting to a ranger’s dreamland – the Cape at Beacon Bay. At twenty-nine she was pretty happy with her life. She’d been in The Bay for six years, had a small circle of good friends, had been in a couple of relationships but was unfazed at not having a man in her life at present. She’d gone through the mid-twenties panic of ‘finding’ someone and was now enjoying her job, her life and her surroundings. The right man would come along when the time was right.

  The cottage office was dwarfed by the original main house, a classic Australian stone residence with verandahs all around. The lighthouse keepers had lived in it for one hundred years after the tower had been built. It was empty now, but preserved in good condition for its heritage value. Before the existing tower was built, the Cape had been marked with an unsophisticated stone beacon. Despite its size, it gave comfort and direction to the local whalers and fishermen, as well as the trading boats that plied up and down the coast. That’s how the township had got its name, Beacon Bay; a detail of the area’s history that many locals had told Tina since she’d taken up the post.

  The main house was once again in the public spotlight, thanks to the latest wave of economic rationalism to wash through the government. The number crunchers wanted to turn it into an earner: perhaps a backpackers’ hostel, a restaurant, or a rentable community venue. A great place for weddings, said some. Tina had her own views on what should be done with the house, and they didn’t include hosting fun-and-havoc nights for backpackers or newlyweds.

  So much of the town’s history was kept in the lighthouse – the old lighthouse keepers’ logs and photos, and the furniture, tools and souvenirs that had been salvaged from shipwrecks. For Tina there was also history in the natural world of the Cape and The Bay. She loved the swooping sea hawks and eagles, the nests of seabirds tucked precariously into the cliff face, the teeming array of creatures, from mice and bush rats to emerald frogs, bandicoots and wallabies. There were the five cows that wandered the plateau on the southern side above the beach. And of course, Ramses, the old ram confined to the backyard of the main house to keep the grass down.

  She had mixed feelings about the herd of feral goats that rambled the cliffs through the undergrowth, sometimes appearing on the shrubby dunes to startle a fisherman. Descended from the first goats that were kept to supply milk and meat to the early lighthouse families, they darted all over the headland, eluding capture. They kept to themselves and each dawn several could be found dancing on spindly legs up and down the steps at the base of the lighthouse.

  Leaning against the old bolted steel door of the tower was a woman in a swimsuit and sarong, hugging her knees, staring down at the curve of the wide, sheltered bay.

  Tina shooed away the two billy goats standing possessively on the bottom step. ‘They won’t butt you. Watch their poos, though.’ She indicated the woman’s bare feet and well-manicured red toenails. ‘I’m Tina. I’m about to lock this area. Do you want to go through or are you walking back down to the beach?’

  ‘I’ve just walked up from the beach, I’ll go out the main gates. Thanks.’ She eyed the healthy looking young ranger in her khaki shorts and matching shirt with the National Parks emblem on the pocket. ‘I’m Laura. Thought I’d start the year off by getting fit and walking to the lighthouse every day. I was going for a swim but it doesn’t look too appealing. And there’s a lot of rubbish along the beach.’

  ‘Weekend revellers,’ sighed Tina. ‘The council will be along to clean up soon. Any bodies crashed down there?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘We discourage that,’ said Tina firmly. ‘You on holidays?’ she asked as they walked towards the main entrance.

  ‘Feels like it. No, I’ve been here about two years. The last couple of months in town. Left my husband in the hills.’

  ‘Ah.’ Tina made no comment. She was used to chatting to women newly on their own. It seemed they all headed to the lighthouse early in the morning. Some walked in groups.

  As Tina locked the gates across the driveway, Laura gazed at the lush green hillside that rose above Ten Mile Beach. It was pristine, save for a platform that was used as a launching site for the hang gliders.

  ‘Is that Bedford Hill?’

  ‘Sure is. It’s home to some amazing plants and animals. And birds.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a plan to develop it at one stage?’

  ‘Yes. But it got defeated, thanks to a rare little endangered orchid that grows there and nowhere else.’

  Laura stared at the virgin, green slope facing the sea. ‘You can see why they wanted it. Fabulous view.’

  ‘It gets a bit windy sometimes, but the view is great. I’m really grateful to the dedicated locals who were behind preserving it.’

  ‘Some would have called that development,’ said Laura mildly.

  ‘If we all thought that, this place would have been overrun like Surfers Paradise. You have to fight. That’s one thing The Bay has shown – people power can work.’

  Laura didn’t look convinced. Or particularly interested.

  ‘I guess you have to be here a while to really understand,’ said Tina. She looked at Laura, swiftly assessing her, noting the make-up, the carefully done hair and nails, the expensive swimsuit. ‘Are you planning on staying?’ Tina had seen these separated and divorced women come and go. Some changed, some grew, some stayed in their same old comfort zone of bitter bitching, others moved on. Some floundered in indecision for years.

  ‘I don’t know. I have a young daughter . . . I’m not sure what to do with my life . . .’ her voice trailed off. Laura didn’t like thinking about this. One day she thought she wanted to dump Alice with Eddie and just travel. Another day she thought she’d be an artist. Or perhaps she wanted to be rich and famous – but how?

  ‘Be careful. This place can trap you. You can lose ten years of your life in a blink. Pleasantly enough, but then what?’ Tina unlocked her car and gave a bright smile. ‘Don’t mind me. I get a lot of earbashing from the girls around here. Can I give you a lift into town?’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Laura. ‘I can tell my daughter I lived up to my New Year’s resolution – a walk to the lighthouse. Walking down doesn’t have to be part of the equation.’

  Tina reversed out of the carpark and Laura threw one more look back at Bedford Hill. ‘I sure would’ve liked an apartment on that hill. Maybe I’ll win lotto and get a place at the new beach development at Mighty Beach.’

  ‘What new development?’ asked Tina with barely concealed surprise.

  ‘Oh, well, nothing’s definite. I just met some guys at a party who want to build along that bit of beach in front of the old wharf.’

  ‘They wish. Everyone would like that piece of land,’ said Tina. ‘No way anyone would build on it, for lots of reasons. Anyway, a cyclone would take it out in a flash.’

  ‘You get cyclones here?’

&n
bsp; ‘Rarely. It’s been thirty years since the last decent one. We must be due,’ said Tina cheerfully. But Laura’s remark had disturbed her. She’d check out if there were developers snooping around. You had to be ever vigilant in paradise.

  Lynn had introduced Holly and Curly to Tinderbox Beach, known alternatively as ‘Dog Beach’ because the walking of dogs was permitted.

  ‘The councillors are taking themselves a bit too seriously,’ complained Lynn. ‘No dogs on most of the beaches and keep ’em on a leash. It’s getting bloody ridiculous. And some poor bugger got fined the other day for skinny-dipping.’

  ‘Is there a law against it?’ asked Holly, glancing up and down the near-deserted beach.

  ‘Depends where, when and who. It’s coming up before the council. If they crack down there’ll be a riot. It’s not dirty old men wandering around, it’s couples, families, kids, that get their gear off . . . It’s healthy. There’s the sun cult people who like to dance naked, and Drew’s nude dawn yoga class do it at the far end of Mighty Beach. You have to go out of your way to get there.’

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone naked on the main beach,’ said Holly, wondering what it would be like to swim in the ocean without a costume. Wouldn’t Andrew be shocked if she suggested it.

  So Holly added another routine to her day, Curly’s sunset walk. She said she did it for the dog’s sake, but she loved the walk along the beach as the sun set over the mountains, the clouds, rosy gold, reflected in the hard wet sand like melted rainbows. Often the dolphins cruised past. Most of the dog walkers had left by this time and she enjoyed having the beach to herself. If they ran into another dog and owner they’d nod or exchange a smile and a few words, depending on the social interaction between the dogs. Holly and Curly usually walked for thirty minutes in one direction, reaching the channel where Tea-tree Creek ran out of the dunes onto the beach, then they turned back as the sky began to dim and the lighthouse switched on its flashing beam.

  This afternoon there were three people on the beach but only one other dog. The sleek animal’s graceful movements were as smooth as a ballet dancer’s. It was energetically dashing into the surf to retrieve a stick thrown by its owner.

  As they came closer, Curly paused in her sedate paddling to watch the stick game, then dashed off to join in the fun. On her first competitive plunge into the surf she won the race to the stick and ran triumphantly to Holly and dropped it at her feet.

  ‘Well done, old girl. I really thought you’d outgrown such capers.’ She gave a friendly hello to the other dog as it bounded up and sat panting, eyeing the stick in anticipation of Holly throwing it.

  The dog’s owner, a mature man with longish brown hair and fit build jogged up and nodded towards Curly. ‘Not a bad effort there. She’s not exactly a youngster by the look of her, but still trying to prove she’s got what it takes.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ said Holly with a grin that hid the astonishment she felt at coming out with such a flippant, even suggestive, remark to a complete stranger. She instantly changed the subject. ‘What kind of dog is she?’ Its golden brown coat was like velvet, its face alert and friendly. It seemed heavier than a greyhound, closer to a Weimaraner but had rich toffee-coloured eyes. Against such an elegant dog, Curly, with her muddled genealogy of golden retriever and labrador, looked shaggily disreputable.

  ‘This is Romany, she’s a Hungarian Vizsla. Still a bit young and dancy.’

  ‘The dancing gypsy. She’s lovely.’ Holly threw the stick and the dog raced after it, Curly trotting behind at a respectable pace.

  The two dogs began a tug of war with the stick, one dropping it, the other picking it up waiting for the other to pull it away. Their owners watched them for a few minutes, then Holly sank onto the sand. ‘I’ll take a break, it’s nice for Curly to play with another dog. She gets a bit lonely up at our place. We’re new so she hasn’t found many playmates.’

  ‘The beach is the best place to meet pals.’

  ‘Do you walk here every day?’ asked Holly.

  ‘Just about. Mind you, we might not have many places left to take our dogs if we don’t shake some sense into the council. Most of the locals are responsible pet owners who pick up after their dogs. It’s the visiting kids in their vans and trucks who let their dogs run wild. Are you coming to the dog rally?’ he asked, turning to look at her.

  He was an attractive man, about her own age with a pleasant voice and easy manner. Probably married with kids, she thought, and was surprised that she should consider this. Holly shook her head. ‘What rally?’

  ‘You should come. Dog owners in the shire are protesting on Saturday week; the council wants to ban dogs from here. That only leaves two beaches, one some distance and one quite small.’

  ‘Oh, that would be a shame,’ said Holly.

  ‘That’s why we’re marching through town – with our dogs. We’re meeting at 9 am in Station Park.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far,’ she said, hesitantly.

  ‘You must come if you can. The more who do, the better we can make our point.’

  ‘I’ve never actually taken part in a protest,’ said Holly with a small smile.

  ‘You are new,’ he said kindly. ‘Well, welcome to the end of the rainbow where good things happen, or people make them happen.’ He gave an exaggerated courtly bow then plonked down on the sand next to her. ‘You name a cause close to the hearts of the New Age alternative thinkers and you find advocates and followers here. Save the planet from global warming, save the rainforests, organic food is the only food, don’t eat anything but veggies, get that compost or worm farm working overtime. Every do-good slogan gets an airing around this patch.’

  Holly laughed. ‘I’m not sure if you’re an advocate, a follower, or sending up the scene.’

  ‘Well, to be honest, I’m not sure either,’ he chuckled. ‘But I like a lot of what I hear. I like the energy created by some of these causes. Sometimes the ripples of sense and sanity travel a long way.’

  Holly enjoyed his easy flow of words and the fact that he wasn’t taking himself completely seriously. ‘And a dog rally fits in with all that?’ she asked.

  ‘I have news for you. This issue is not going to change the world, but finding a practical solution to problems such as dogs on beaches is very much what a sense of community is all about. This town is the greatest mix of people and philosophies I’ve ever come across, but somehow we all feel we form a real community.’

  Holly raised a clenched fist in the air and called, ‘Where dogs matter. Hear, hear!’ They both burst out laughing. ‘Okay, I’ll march,’ she said.

  ‘My son tells me I shouldn’t carry my soapbox around with me,’ he conceded.

  ‘You’ve been here since the hippy years?’

  ‘No, unfortunately. I’ve only been here five years. I woke up one morning and felt like I was lost in a maze with no way out, which I decided meant I must be looking for some purpose in my life.’

  ‘I know what you mean. For me it’s been a growing sense of restlessness,’ said Holly slowly, articulating aloud what she’d only recently identified.

  ‘So came the great re-evaluation of life, career, friendships and I was compelled to make a change,’ he continued. ‘Which meant dragging my wife and son in my wake.’

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Holly. ‘Did your family feel the same?’

  ‘I confess I was an advertising executive in Sydney.’ He pretended to hang his head in shame. ‘The full-on yuppie with all the trappings. I guess we were all ready for a change, but I’d never go back,’ he added. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, it’s too early for me to say one way or the other. I’ve only been here a few weeks – also from Sydney. Been mothering and doing the executive wife bit. I think it’s beautiful here, but then Mosman is rather nice. Lovely home, harbour view, smart friends, busy social life –’

  ‘And bored to tears and feeling empty. You don’t have to say any more. I won’t pry. You might
like it here, just give each day a chance,’ he said softly.

  ‘I like that,’ she said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Give each day a chance,’ she repeated.

  They both sat quietly looking at the sea and the dogs. Eventually he broke the silence. ‘I think I can see where you’re coming from and I can tell you from experience that one day you’ll want to run, run away in near panic. You’ll feel you’re sinking into the quicksand of indecision – stay, run, stay, run . . . stay . . . run . . . ’

  ‘Sounds depressing.’

  ‘It can be. But stay calm and in all probability you’ll be rescued.’

  ‘By a knight in shining armour?’

  ‘Who knows? You might be that lucky. Just remember there’s quicksand in Mosman too.’

  Holly turned to him and grinned. ‘Don’t tell me you also fled from Mosman. That would be too much.’

  ‘No, but I’m interested in whales and the history of whaling in Australia. Mosman, or Great Sirius Cove as it was known, was once a stinking whaling shore station and the social scene there was dominated by prostitutes and carousing whalers.’

  ‘We don’t talk about such things in Mosman, my dear,’ Holly said in an exaggerated socialite voice, ‘and I would be much obliged if you didn’t raise the subject again.’

  Their laughter brought the dogs and they both stood up.

  ‘Nice talking to you. Enjoy the walk,’ said Holly.

  ‘A pleasure for me as well. But now I have to run to catch up on my schedule. See you around.’ He patted his dog then started jogging. ‘Come on, hound.’