“And you’re either the shark or the food,” I recite.
He brightens a little, pleased. “Good girl.”
This time, he cups the side of my face, gently, gently. My cheek still stings from where he hit me, but I know it’s my fault. Not his. IfI’d only answered faster. If I hadn’t been so slow, so stupid. My fault. My fault.
“So when you’re out there, castin’,” he says again, “always take a knife.”
I can’t nod fast enough, and he softens.
“Here, see?” He clips his black knife into the sheath strapped to his waist. “If you feel the water get in, you drop the fuckin’ rod and you grab for your knife. Cut the straps, and make sure not to cut your damn self while you’re at it. Get the waders off, quick as you can, and swim to shore. Understand?”
I nod again. But no, I didn’t really understand.
It was Heath who explained later.
“The water will carry you away, Min. Fast as anything. That’s the danger of casting into the water at night. It’s hard to see out there, and it’s so damn loud. If you stumble, or a big wave hits you, the water will funnel into your waders, filling them up. And it’s so cold that the shock of it’ll make you slow. By the time you realize that…Just take a knife, always. Okay, kiddo?”
I did not want to walk out into that water at night. But Dad insisted on it. You need toughenin’ up, he said. It was years later I realized he was saying it more to himself and using us as an excuse.
“Not yet,” Heath pleaded on my behalf. “She’s too young for that, Dad.”
But all I could think about was my father’s words, and I imagined what it would be like out there alone in the dark. The shock of the cold water filling you up, carrying you off into the darkness while the waves silenced every one of your screams.
My father was not afraid of sharks. But he was afraid of that. I could see it in his face. Heath and I weren’t scared of the water. Sometimes I think he hated us for that.
He made Heath do it as often as possible, step into the waders and the black water, casting as far as he could where the bigger fish waited. Snapper, whiting, harmless gummy sharks. Enough food to last for weeks.
I never understood why he insisted on fishing the beach at night.He had theDeep Sea.There was no need to plunge into the cold ocean and battle the black waves. But the truth is, he hated the boat, too. More, I think.
And the older I grew, the more I realized these night trips were his way of proving to himself that he was still in control. That maybe, next time he entered the water, the fear would lessen. But it never did. It must have been maddening for him, relentlessly grappling with fear, trying to out-stare it in the dark. And losing each time.
For a man like my father, control is everything. How unacceptable it must have felt to him that his own children loved something he feared so deeply. Maybe that’s why he dragged us down there in the dark—maybe he was trying to make us fear it, too. He didn’t realize thathewas my ocean. He was the cold, dark water, and all the fucking monsters in it.
I watched my father step uneasily into the water, one hand on the rod, one hand tight on the sheath. I watched until he merged with the darkness, disappearing.
—
I thrash awake, sweating. Theocean hums through my pillow. Seawater sloshes through my ears. Jessie lifts her head, gives me a look:Are you okay?
Chills tiptoe down my neck. The ocean calls again, urgent. Dazed, I tumble out of bed, pull open my closet, stare into the dark. The soles of my feet are dripping. My head feels like a water balloon. I tilt it to one side and half expect seawater to pour out in a salty torrent.
I dig at the back of the closet like a dog, find it. I tie the sheath flush to my ankle, pulling the strap until it cinches tight. The second strap wraps just above the curve of my calf, anchoring the knife in place. The handle is made from polished kangaroo bone, smooth and pale. Cool to the touch. I found the femur bone in the Wicked Woods when I was a kid and shaped it into a handle, clean and white.
I watch the Hannah video, turn it up as loud as it will go. Hannahscreams and the ocean calls and calls, melting together into one unholy roar.
I fall asleep, sweating and shaking, until I don’t know which is calling.
Fears for Daily journalist Chris Cooper: Car found abandoned near Violet Town
Herald Sun
A frantic search is underway for missing journalist Chris Cooper. He was last seen three days ago at a Benalla service station at 11a.m.and his white Audi A5 Coupe was discovered last night, abandoned at a rest stop five kilometers from Violet Town.
Family and police hold concerns for his welfare.
“My son wouldn’t just disappear. Someone knows something,” his mother, Joanne Cooper, said. “As a mother, I’m begging the public—please, if you have even the slightest clue about where Chris is or what might have happened to him, please speak up now. We just want him home.”
Anyone who sees him or has information about his whereabouts is urged to contact local police or Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000.
