Home is Where the Wind is

From the air you can trace the arcs of reef and watch fishing boats tack between sandbars and coral spits. There are three clusters of islands that make up the Abrolhos- They’re scattered from north to south like the downward flick of an artists brush. Yellows and greys and greens on a canvas of fervent blues. The larger islands are cluttered with corrugated iron and asbestos shacks, the beaches sprout spindly wooden fingers that stretch to the deeper blue beyond the shallows.

I'm from Geraldton, a place where undulating seas of parched wheat and flocks of laconic sheep make way for sandy coastal plains- and onward to the sea. Since I can remember, we would all go down to the beach- reefwalking, beachcombing, fishing, surfing, swimming, snorkeling. In summer, we spent days at a time in the sun and salt and sand. My elder brother rose like clockwork each morning, six AM, just time for breakfast and a surf, and as the sun rose at his back, he'd paddle out to the break, to sit in line with a dozen other surfers, propped silently on their boards... Watching, waiting for the next set to amble in and break its back over the sand bank.

I finished school and decided to work for a year, to save some cash for uni and the big move to Perth. I got a job on a crayboat- hard work, big money and an amazing lifestyle. In the crisp pre-dawn when we get up to pull the pots, the world seems disconcertingly void of any colour, like looking through a frame at a black and white photograph; parallel lines of greys and blacks blurring away at the edges. As the sun creeps over the horizon, the landscape is dipped in sepia and you have to squint to make out the lines of floats on the bow. Gradually the sun breaks free from the ocean and the whole scene springs to life like a ballerina from a music box. Shags and silver gulls burst from the picture and drift lazily overhead, whitecaps tumble at the peak of each wave and sea lions, sharks and dolphins take turns weaving in and out of our wake.

I try to head back to Geraldton each summer, back to the land of wheat and sheep and sun and sand. I feel the easterly amble in each morning. I watch the boats unload at the “lives” dock and the James Bowes trucks coast in and out of town. Spend enough time on the ocean and it never lets you go. Whenever I think of home; the wind, the water, the waves, my mind unravels like a rope thrown into the sea.

A Six Shooter Beats Four Aces (Part II)

Three days later, Mickey drives us to a block of flats, parks on the curb and has a short conversation with the intercom at the door. Thirty seconds later he waves us over and we follow him into a cramped elevator which takes us to the fourth floor. The hallway is bare and smells of damp carpet. Mickey leads us to a door and knocks, almost shaking the thing off its rusty hinges. The door cracks open and a bloodshot eye appears above the chain, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me you dipshit.”
“How many are with you?”
“Just open the bloody door you idiot.” Mickey’s getting impatient.
The door squeezes shut amidst a wave of muttered grumbling and cursing, followed by the sound of a chain being slid out of its lock and the door swinging open. The stench that wafts from inside is foul and I try not to gag. Romper’s covering his mouth and nose as we all file into the room. Mickey picks his way through the disaster area that was a lounge-room and opens a window. “Missed spring-cleaning this year did you Gutterball?”
The man Mickey calls Gutterball is a sallow, pinch-faced crone with stained army pants, heavy boots and dog-tags hanging from his neck. He scowls at Mickey, “I spray the carpets with a mixture of peat and vinegar. Confuses the Slopes, you know. You’d do well to do the same Mickey-boy.”
“Righto Gutterball, what have you got for us.”
The old trooper disappears into another room, grumbling unintelligibly to himself. While he’s gone a giant fat lizard lumbers out of the kitchen, dragging its stomach across the stained lino. The repulsive thing stops about a metre away and looks us all up and down with beady eyes. Mickey nudges it with his foot. “Slink he calls it. Let’s the bloody thing out and night and it crawls around the roof looking for rats. Eats all the neighbors cats too apparently.” Slink licks his lips, and I think the disgusting creature is calculating how long it would take to digest one of us. Gutterball returns from the other room, straining under a massive bundle wrapped in a blanket. He drops the pile on a mattress in the lounge room and unrolls it.
“Christ.” Billy whistles through his teeth.
Layed out on the mattress is an arsenal of destruction that wouldn’t look out of place strapped to old Sly Stallone in a B-Grade action flick. A grin spreads across Mickey’s face and he slaps Gutterball on the back then chucks us each a bag. “Go for your life boys.”
Billy the Kid picks up two revolvers, twirls them in his hands and then flips them open to take a look down the barrels and at the chambers. Satisfied, he tosses them into his bag and grabs a gun belt and halter for good luck. I pick up a shotgun and a pistol and a few rounds of ammunition then walk over to the window to get some fresh air before I pass out from the stench. Meanwhile, Midget’s picked up a handful of grenades and what looks like an anti-aircraft gun and is waving it around with a look of glee on his haunted face. None of us think the nutcase is serious until he crams the cannon into his bag and struggles vainly to do up the zip.
“Jesus.” Mutters Billy quietly to me, “He serious?”
“Fuckin’ looks like it.”
Back out in the hall and the five of us are doing our best to stay inconspicuous despite the thirty kilo’s of newly acquired hardware. “He was a munitions supply officer in Vietnam.” Mickey says as we pile into the lift. “Served with me da, damn fine man to have at your back too by all accounts. Something happened though, don’t know what but he’s never gotten over it. Don’t know where he keeps pulling these power-tools from either but I don’t ask any questions.”

Pehr's Story

When he grew old and strong enough, the boy’s grandfather would take him out hunting. The old man would wake him before dawn, he would dress hastily in his thick woollen jacket and breeches and don his heavy, hooded overcoat and rush excitedly downstairs. His grandfather would be waiting for him on the bottom step of the landing as always, puffing smoke rings through his snow white beard and binding tight his thick fur hunting boots.
“Alright lad?” his grandfather would ask, “Let’s get going then.”

It was Pehr’s job to brush and saddle the horses in the stable while his grandfather oiled and polished the Wessen rifle. Sometimes Pehr would sneak cubes of sugar from the kitchen for the horses, and his black mare, Sooty would nuzzle against his shoulder, appreciating the treat. When he was satisfied that all was in order, Pehr’s grandfather would sheaf the rifle in its oilskin canvas and lash it to his saddle and the two would set out down the drive, past the ancient sycamores and into the open land that stretched between the city and the river. So it was that some mornings two figures could be seen riding westward over the frozen river, framed by the sun as it broke over the mountains, briefly bathing the grim, grey landscape in hues of golden brown and amber.

What, He Too Scared to Stand Up?

Last week I was at the beach with a mate and a busload of aboriginal kids from somewhere way inland pulled up in the carpark. These kids had never seen the ocean before. Two of the boys came up to us as we were waxing our surfboards. "What do you use those for?" He asked.
As we explained how you use a surfboard to ride waves, he pointed to another guy coming out of the surf with a bodyboard. "What about that one?"
"You lay on that and catch waves on your belly." I told him.
The second boy looks at me for a minute, obviously thinking. "What? He too scared to stand up?"


What Would It Be Like to see the Ocean for the First Time?


The boy crested the rise amidst whoops of laughter and catcalls from his friends. The coastal sun was belting down and he could feel the warmth on his bare back. Suddenly he was hit from behind, and a cackling figure bore him tumbling to the sugar-white sand. He opened his mouth to shout but only succeeded in copping a mouthful of sand and shell. The boy spat the grit from between his teeth and playfully punched his friend in the ribs before climbing to his feet and resuming the chase up the last sand dune to the beach. The others had already reached the crest by the time he got there and their awestruck gasps were carried away by the sea breeze, leaving no sound but the gentle lapping of the tide and the murmur of the whitewash as it rolled in to shore. The ocean was different to anything the boy had ever imagined, and not even Jimmy Walingiri’s stories came close to describing what the boy was seeing now. The long, gently sloping beach ran curving and swaying as far as his eyes could make out. He could see clearly where the dark blue became green and rolled in to lick at the white sand, and where the lines of waves began, and made their slow, tumbling way in to be demolished to spray and foam on the sand bar. The mottled colours spread as far as the boy could see, finally stretching to the edge of the earth where the sea would flow over like a waterfall to be recycled in space and become rain.

Something New

In poking around and playing with ideas for a new creative writing project I've stumbled across a genre called Steampunk (technically a sub-genre of speculative fiction but hey). The whole premise of the genre is taking a historical time and place where steam-power is still widely used (typically Victorian London), and then introducing prominent elements of either science fiction or fantasy. One of the most common fictional devices is the introduction of technological developments far more advanced than what was around at the time.

This means you get crazy contraptions like steam-powered rockets, floating cities, walking fortresses, wacky flying contraptions, steam-driven submarines, dirigibles... basically anything you can think of you can invent, bring to life and then slot into a kind of alternate history, a vision of what could have been.

The term "steampunk" wasn't really coined until the late 1980's but has been retrospectively applied to the work of H. G. Wells and Jules Verne, the fathers of contemporary sci-fi. As is so often the case, since I stumbled across the genre I've been tripping over it everywhere. I have an eight thousand word project coming up for uni, so I'm going to try writing a steampunk piece. I'll keep you updated with how it's coming along.

In the meantime, here's some examples of work that falls under the steampunk sub-genre if anyone is interested-

Books-

His Dark Materials- Phillip Pullman
A Series of Unfortunate Events- Lemony Snicket (Daniel Handler)
Around the World in Eighty Days- Jules Verne
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea- Jules Verne
The Island of Dr. Moreau- H. G. Wells
The War of the Worlds- H.G. Wells
The Hungry City Chronicles- Phillip Reeve

Movies-

Akira
Howl's Moving Castle
Spirited Away
Steamboy League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events

Video Games-

Benoit Sokal's Syberia,
Sinking Island
and Paradise