‘$50’, the sign said. It must’ve been written with the flat side of a piece of chalk. Letters chunky but pocked, as if a few drops of rain pitted them before swirling across the bay or along streets dark as mineshafts. I stood next to the sign, muted light beaming over it from an overhead lamp on the pier.
“Fifty dollars for two hours plus bait. We supply a hand line.” She barely glanced at me from the boat. Rummaged in a fridge. I said it sounded fine and made my way over a short gangplank. On the boat she briefly took my arm. “Steady,” she said. “Bit choppy today.”
By the time we left four others joined us. She’d introduced herself as Torren and pointed out her father, the skipper. He unhooked a rope, inhaling from a wet-looking roll your own. He half turned and nodded in our direction.
Under my feet motors chugged. We eased away from the pier. At first I thought sun was coming up as the boat turned but realised the silver half-light was an aura over the city from lit up office towers. Ocean frothed dully. Vibrations hummed through me, in joints and ligaments.
I hadn’t done this in two years. Lara came with me then. She was confident in the boat. From all those trips with her father on his runabout. His outboard motor sputtering around the estuaries near Port Macquarie, searching for blackfish. She’d become expert fetching another stubby for him as he’d pushed the boat full throttle to reach the next secret fishing spot. Behind mangroves, cicadas throbbed from treetops, an occasional orange one drifting by in the muddy waters. Lara said she rescued them when she could, placing each one on the rear of the boat to dry.
