The porridge-faced man reappears, body coiled, eyes flickering like a patient snake. He slithers behind me, guarding the door, hands twitching at his sides, breathing heavily into the back of my neck. I step forward but I’m blocked in again, sandwiched between bodies, too tight to maneuver my way forward or back.
No one moves. No one can.
2:07a.m.
“Hurry the fark up!”
“I don’t have all night, boys!”
“Wasting myfarkentime!”
The shed pulses with each shout. I sweat hard, feeling like the walls are constricting. Every curse, every shift of weight, a spark. If we wait any longer, the whole damn shed feels like it will burst into flames.
Then I see them. Standing together near the stage. Trav. Terry. The older man’s hand rests on Trav’s shoulder, not heavy but steady, reassuring. Reminds me of my first night back in the Roo Bay pub when Terry reached out for Heath, fatherly hand on his shoulder.
I duck lower, hoping they don’t see me, as an ironic cheer erupts, so loud I feel the echo in my ribs. I peek over the man’s shoulder,eyes on the stage, watching a struggling man ascend the steps. He’s hunched over, waddling like a duck, straining under the weight of what he’s carrying. His face is contorted with effort, veins in his neck bulging, shoes squeaking as he inches forward.
Two red-faced men at the side of the stage urge him on, raising beers, eyes glazed. “Good on ya, Dave-O!”
“You got this, matey!”
The man onstage grunts with effort, pouring sweat under the shed lights, reminding me of a weight lifter. He pauses, shifting his grip, and his drunk mates urge him on, slapping their knees, yelling encouragement. The blood men raise up a cheer like a cresting wave, and it’s so loud, the walls rattle.
Urged on, the man grunts again, heaving and struggling to the end of the stage where Luke awaits, microphone loose in his left hand. I tug my cap down, but nothing could pull Luke’s eyes from the man. Luke’s laughing hisholy shitlaugh, slapping his stomach, delighted. Finally, the man staggers to the finishing line—the weigh-in platform.
He heaves the catch down and the thunderous cheer crashes into the air, erupting all at once, as if the blood men had been waiting and waiting to let it loose. The man straightens up, rubbing the small of his back, his smile huge. But my eyes are on his mako shark.
Showtime.
The shark has small black eyes, a sharp nose, long, narrow teeth protruding from the mouth. Looks like absolute hell. A shortfin mako is a speed-swimming shark, the fastest on earth. Three to four meters in length, weighing anywhere from 60 kilograms to 150, and capable of leaping clear of the water when hooked. They can even land in the boat if you’re not careful. Sometimes one will play dead when hooked on a longline, only to spring to life once you’ve got the bastard in the boat. They’re highly sought after as a game species, if you can get them. The fillets are pale pink, like flake. A good eating shark.
And the thing is, it’s not illegal to catch them.
So why the hell are we here?
Public weigh-ins take place on the boat ramps. We have two inKangaroo Bay, both with fish cleaning tables and a fish weighing station. News travels fast when someone’s caught a big mako. You gather your mates up, stop at the bottle shop, then head down to the boat ramp. You offer the fishermen a Carlton Draught each, then watch the weigh-in, half drunk and envious.
Then you stand on the sidelines like pelicans, watching them slice the fillets into thick steaks of pearly meat.
Maybe they offer you a few fillets, maybe they don’t.
After, everyone gets shitfaced and violent at the Roo Bay pub.
I look around the shed, willing my heart rate to slow down, but it keeps speeding up. Why are they holding the public weigh-in here? Away from the town? Away from everything?
I inch back, sweat dripping down my knees as the man ties a rope around the mako’s crescent-shaped tail and Luke winches it up. As the digital scale tallies up the weight, shouts call out.
“Seventy-five kilos!”
“Sixty-four!”
“Hundred kilo, just like ya mum!”
Beery laughter rings out, and I look desperately for another exit. I scan the faces at the front of the stage for Heath, but I don’t see him.
“Sixty-eight kilograms!” Luke calls when the scale numbers stop flickering. “Nice one! Dinner’s on Dave-O!”
Dave-O gives two thumbs-up to the crowd. He saunters off, slapping high-fives to the front row, and Luke brings the microphone to his mouth, eyes alight, announcing, “Bring on the next!”
