Wild Tides, page 2
I glanced up to see Lizzie’s eyes narrowed on me, and she didn’t seem very happy with my plans. I loved these two women deeply. They were the pillars of my life, having seen me through thick and thin and ups and downs, but they had no conception of how broken I felt. I hoped they wouldn’t give me a hard time. I needed to embark on this journey to find myself again.
“Are you running away from something, Son?” My mother asked me, her voice sounding exceptionally sad, her islander accent thickly coating her words, though she’d left Torres Strait decades ago. Surprised, I quickly looked up at her.
“No, of course not. I’m just taking some time for myself. The only time I’ve had to myself in the past three years was wrecked…, well, by the shark attack. I need some time to decompress.”
“You believe you’re all healed from that ordeal?”
Taking a deep breath, I spoke from the heart, “No, not completely, but that will probably take a lot more time. And I don’t want to go into it again right now.”
“Can’t you stay here with us and clear your head?” Lizzie asked, taking a sip of her coffee. “Can’t we help you do what you need to do? I worry about you.”
“I know you do. But I’ll be fine.”
“But you’ve only just come home after almost a year away.”
“You should be used to me being away all the time by now. Don’t worry. I plan to drive up the coast, spend time at the ocean, and maybe do some off-shore fishing. I was thinking of maybe stopping up at Palmer Station. It’s been a long time since I’ve been up there.”
“Why would you want to go there?” Mum asked sharply. “Nothing in Palmer Station for any of us.”
Lizzie covered her hand with her own, and Mom looked somewhat abashed. We’d lived in Palmer Station in north New South Wales when we were small children, and Mum had had a difficult time there, trying to raise us, two obviously half-white children, with no husband. Everyone who lived in that tiny, rural community knew everyone else. They worked on the surrounding large estates, farms and ranches, as that was the only employment in the area. I was too young to realize how few residents had been kind to her, shunning us because they knew my white father hadn’t married my mother. In fact, he’d been married to someone else for years, a British lady with whom he had two older boys. My affinity to Palmer Station was the idyllic childhood I’d had because of Josh and his family. Meeting and befriending Josh the summer when we turned ten years old had given me opportunities and freedoms I never would have had otherwise.
“You’re probably right,” I conceded. “It was just a thought. This trip is about the journey, not the destination,” I grinned at Mom and then Lizzie, parroting one of my sister’s favorite axioms. Neither of them seemed amused by my cleverness this time. I shrugged. They had always been a hard audience for my brand of witticism.
“We’ve seen how much you’ve been struggling, Sean. We want you to be happy.” Lizzie reached across the table to squeeze my hand. It was the closest they’d come to talking about the crux of their concern. I could see the concern in her eyes.
“Seriously, now. How long do you plan to be away?”
I met her gaze with reassurance, “A few days, maybe a week, I dunno, but I promise to keep in touch. I’m sure I’ll have mobile service most of the time, but when I don’t, I’ll find a landline somewhere.”
Mom stood, and her gentle hands found my shoulders. She hugged me tightly, then pulled away slightly, looking deep into my eyes. “You take care of yourself, Okay?”
“Yes, of course,” I nodded. Mom hugged me again, and Lizzie came over and did the same.
“Don’t make me come looking for you, little brother.”
“I wouldn’t dream of dragging you out into the wilds,” I said, laughing. Lizzie screwed her face up at me, slapped me on the shoulder, and walked away, while Mum continued to hover.
“I love you both. I’ll be fine and come back with a clear head, I promise. I may even bring you enough fish to fill up the freezer.”
“No thanks. We’ll pass on the fish,” Lizzie said from across the room.
I kissed them on the cheek, and after one last hug, I left the house. Climbing up on the driver’s seat of my truck, I closed my eyes and allowed a sensation I hadn’t felt in a long while to wash over me. It was like a jolt of electricity, an exhilarating feeling of happiness and freedom. I savored the feeling and intended to make the most of this good fortune. I pulled out of the driveway and headed northeast, straight for M1, the Pacific Highway.
Chapter Three
As I drove north, the Australian countryside spread out ahead of me, a breathtaking tapestry of natural beauty.
The road meandered through a landscape that seemed right off a postcard. The eucalyptus trees stood tall and proud, their silver-green leaves shimmering in the sunlight, perfuming the air with their distinctive scent, a blend of earthiness and the unmistakable aroma of the Australian bush. Gum trees lined the roadside, their twisted trunks and branches casting intriguing shadows on the ground, and among the leaves, colorful parrots and cockatoos flitted about, their vibrant plumage a stark contrast against the green backdrop.
The highway occasionally led me through charming coastal towns with quaint cottages painted in pastel colors. I saw fishing boats on the clear blue waters, the men casting their lines and nets, hoping for a bountiful catch. In the evenings, I would stop in whatever town I was near for dinner, the scent of fried fish and other delicacies on the salty sea breeze churning up a ravenous hunger in my belly.
The coastline of New South Wales, as it wound up towards Queensland, was a wonder to behold, with rugged cliffs and golden beaches that stretched for miles. Crystal clear waves crashed against the shore, inviting surfers to ride their crests, while the deep blue depths of the Pacific Ocean extended to the horizon, a vast expanse of endless possibilities. Occasionally, I would spot kangaroos grazing in open fields, their powerful legs ready to propel them into motion at a moment’s notice. These iconic marsupials were far from the cuddly bedtime plushies tucked in with children at night. They were wild and often ferocious when approached in the wilderness, and I made certain to avoid them along the roads.
Once the landscape transitioned from coastal to inland, vast expanses of rolling hills and farmland were revealed. Cattle and sheep grazed lazily in green pastures, and the earthy scent of freshly tilled and fertilized soil filled the air. South of the border of Queensland, a hot shower and soft bed started calling my name, and I decided to find a nice enough hotel or B&B to spend at least one night in. Hoping to find something in the town of Carmichael, the next town six miles down the road. I followed the two-lane State Road that split off from the interstate. It seemed as if it had been cut right along the bottom of the rocky cliffs, weathered by time and the relentless ocean. At times, I could see the ocean from the road. The rhythmic rolling of the waves, one after the other, towards the shore and the foamy white spray into the air was hypnotic and soothing. The azure blue water curled and crashed against wind-carved stacks, some twice as tall as a man. It was also a beautiful, mesmerizing spectacle.
I soon saw a sign announcing I was entering the township of Carmichael, population 8,222. Thankful, because I was hungry and needed a pit stop, I took the road that turned away from the edge of the ocean. I rolled down the window, hoping for a fresh, cool breeze. Continuing down High Street towards the town square, I could see it was a busy little community, with people bustling in and out of the quaint little shops and knots of pedestrian traffic heading off in the direction I presumed was toward the beach.
It also looked like Christmas had thrown up over town. Twinkling fairy lights twisted in tinsel and garland had been draped around store windows and entwined in planters and baskets of blooming bougainvillea and fragrant Star Jasmine hanging from the lampposts. I shook my head. There hadn’t been this much Christmas merriment across the entire city of Sydney.
Santa Claus, his sleigh pulled by Rudolph and the other happy reindeer, big plastic candy canes, big, colorful holiday ornaments, and twinkling multicolored lights were everywhere.
“Jeez, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” I muttered.
A life-sized plastic Santa hanging ten on a surfboard stood outside a pub, his sunglasses perched jauntily on his jolly red nose, his white cottony beard fluttering in the warm breeze like it was about to take flight. I almost laughed. Almost.
Across the street, there was a display of kangaroos pulling an ancient, rusty Subaru Ute with rear-facing, plastic jump seats decked out like Santa’s sleigh, complete with tinsel and a sack of gift-wrapped boxes. The bloody kangaroos had red and green bandanas around their necks, and the life-sized Santa had on a vivid Hawaiian shirt. I squinted and rubbed my temples.
On the corner, in front of a bakery with its windows steamed up, ruining the fake snow and lettering sprayed on them, stood a three-foot Santa with an umbrella drink in one hand, sunglasses, board shorts, and rubber thongs on his feet, welcoming patrons inside. He was grinning like he was on vacation in bloody Bali or something.
When I saw a parking space big enough for my truck, I swerved into it, cut the engine and got out, taking a second to look around. It was late afternoon but still sunny and bright. A large, neat sign announcing Lily’s Cafe and Inn hanging over the door of a Victorian building in the middle of the block of shops caught my eye, and I strode towards it. Before I’d walked more than halfway there, however, I was sweating balls. My shirt was clinging to my skin, soaking up the sweat trickling down my back and abdomen and from my armpits down my sides. My jeans began to feel like a second skin. It was so damned hot it had to be in the triple digits, and I felt like I’d entered another dimension, one where there were only fake, vacationing Santas relaxing in this unseasonable, unreasonable heat and smiling away like there was no such thing as global warming.
Thank God, I thought as I pushed open the door of Lily’s Café and Inn and stepped into the frigid air conditioning and the delicious aromas of roasting meat, baked fruit pies, and freshly brewed coffee. Also, thankfully, there were no plastic, kitschy Santas or twinkling lights. I felt like I’d been delivered to heaven. Lily, the grandmotherly proprietor, greeted me with a friendly smile. Her silver hair framed a handsome face that radiated warmth and good cheer.
“Good afternoon, dear,” she said, smiling. “How can I help you?”
I returned her smile, luxuriating in the cool air. “Good afternoon. Do you have any rooms available, maybe for a night or two? And whatever you’re serving for dinner tonight smells delicious.”
Lily nodded, her smile never wavering. “I think I might have a nice, cozy suite available. And if you’re ready to eat, you can go right through to the dining room, rest your bones and feed your belly while I get it ready for you. Where’s your car? I suppose you drove into town.”
“The next block down. I left it in a parking spot in front of the stores.”
“Well, you can park it when you’re ready in the lot behind us. It’s for my guests.”
That sounded wonderful, and I gave her my information and credit card. She told me to stop back by for my key when I finished dining.
“Good evening, Jack. How’re you doing?” she asked an elderly gentleman who’d come in behind me.
“Doing better than ever, Lily. Still hot as blazes out there. I thought I’d come here to get something to eat, but mostly to cool off. And good afternoon to you too, young man.”
“Hello, Sir,” I responded. We walked into the dining room more or less at the same time, and I moved aside, taking a moment to decide where to sit. He tipped his head at me and pointed to a table next to a front window looking out on the street. Tinted, reflective shades were drawn to block the bright afternoon sunlight.
“Would you care to share a table?”
“I don’t want to impose on your dinner,” I said, looking around at the many empty tables in the room.
“Nonsense. But if you’d rather eat alone, no offense.”
“No, no. It’s fine. We can share.”
“Emmie, Bring…what’s your name again?” he asked, leaning toward me to hear.
“Sean, Sir. Sean Hargrove.”
“Emmie, hand my new friend, Mr. Hargrove, a menu. I’ll have the special.” We walked to the table he’d pointed out, him leading and me following, and as we settled in our seats, he asked, “You come for the Big Wave competition that’s coming up in a couple of months?”
“No. I haven’t heard about it.”
“Lots of young folk coming in from all around to surf the big waves on the north end. There’s a natural, exposed point break out there that gives nice, big, consistent waves, and at the end of summer, they get even bigger and more powerful. Some promoters came here sometime back and signed with the town council to hold this competition. You might want to come back through for it if you can. It’s supposed to be interesting.
“Yessir, it sounds interesting,” I answered, perusing the menu.
“None of this Sir nonsense. Call me Jack. Do you know about surfing?”
“A little, but not about putting on a surfing event.”
“Other towns a little further up and down the coast have held this contest, but this will be our first year. Makes a lot of money for the town, from what I hear.”
“Yeah, maybe I will stop back through. This is a really nice town, and from what I saw coming from the highway, you have a beautiful spot on the ocean. But besides surfing, what else can I look forward to seeing here? Any good fishing?”
Jack’s eyes lit up as he began regaling me with stories about places around town and some of their history. He spoke of hidden waterfalls deep in the nearby forest, a picturesque lighthouse perched on a cliff, and a secret beach known only to the locals. Emmie came over for my order and asked if I wanted something to drink while I waited. Jack ordered a pitcher of summer ale for both of us.
I enjoyed listening to Jack’s stories and had a nice buzz going from the three pitchers of ale we’d downed with our delicious meal. I paid for our meals and left Jack downstairs a couple of hours later. I retrieved my truck and parked it in the lot behind the Inn. I then found my room, which was very spacious, clean, and nicely decorated. After a refreshing shower, I hit the sack and was out for the rest of the evening.
Chapter Four
The next morning, I ate a hearty breakfast in the dining room as soon as it opened and secured my room for a couple more nights. I then went out to explore the village.
Over dinner the night before, Jack had given me quite a list of things to do and see in and around town, and I was also curious about the Big Wave competition coming to town at the end of summer. I was in no hurry to move on. I had no set destination in mind, and Carmichael was probably as interesting as I was likely to find further up the coast. I took a narrow trail down to the ocean, bypassing the boardwalk that stretched north to the fishing docks and the pier. I walked past the tiny shops that lined it, none of which had yet opened for the day.
The view of the beach was indeed as beautiful as I thought it would be. I could see golden sand, towering palms that swayed in the breeze, and craggy bluffs that extended in both directions, protecting the winding shoreline. It was idyllic. Surfers had come out early to catch the powerful morning tide, and a small group of hot-doggers caught my eye. I watched them for a bit, noticing a couple were putting on quite a show with their acrobatics. They were pretty good, having developed their skill over years of surfing.
I moved on, walking towards the north end of the beach, where parts of the cliffs had crumbled, leaving giant boulders on the beach and several stacks standing in the water. The waves came in more powerfully the further I walked, likely scraping against a deeper bottom and crashing against a natural shelf. I passed the spot where Jack had told me there were hidden caves, but I couldn’t pick them out in the irregular rock face.
However, I could see a house nestled in a gentle cavity along the top of a section of a cliff, accessible from the beach by rugged, uneven steps cut directly into the rock. It appeared empty, faded drapery panels flapping in the wind through two windows that must have been broken out or left wide open. Though it looked smaller and in need of some work, it put me in mind of the Crags, Josh’s oceanfront retreat. The Crags was a majestic home built on a precipice overlooking the ocean that Josh had purchased some years back. Intrigued, I climbed the steps, holding fast to the handholds also cut into the rock.
It wasn’t a difficult climb once I got a closer look, and I practically ran up to the top. The first thing I noticed was the house was much bigger than it looked from below. What looked like the front porch from below was actually a large balcony off the second floor. Beneath it was an even larger stone patio with a lot of old wrought-iron patio furniture rusting in place by the sun and sea mist; their cushions were long gone. There were no stairs to access the balcony, and the French doors that led inside from the ground-floor patio were securely locked.
I went around to the front of the house. The property was overgrown with towering weeds and fat, prickly bushes. Still, I could tell there had once been large gardens on either side of the house and a private driveway that ended at the edge of a side building. This later garage addition needed as much or more TLC than the house. The paint was cracked and peeling on every surface.
The place was indeed empty and neglected and apparently had been so for a long time. The once charming façade was now a patchwork of many coats of paint, most of which were different colors. The wooden trim had weathered years of neglect, and wide plank steps, sagging in the middle, were worn smooth by countless footsteps. A faded, plastic For Sale sign that had once been tacked on the door hung haphazardly from a single nail. Nothing about the simple, two-story frame with its covered porch was majestic. In fact, it looked like a relic from another era, but the location was perfect.
